


Upon Whom Shall You Call?

by May_Shepard



Category: Ghostbusters (2016), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Do You Need Another Reason to Read This?, Drug Use, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Ghostbusterly Shenanigans, Ghostbusters Fusion, Ghostly Shenanigans, Grief/Mourning, Halloweenlock 2016, Happy Ending, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Or Maybe More than a Whiff, Post-Reichenbach, Set in the TAB Verse, That's Right I Said Victorian Lady Ghostbusters, Victorian Lady Ghostbusters, With a Whiff of Crack, and sherlock, ish?, the return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-08-28 07:50:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8437360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/pseuds/May_Shepard
Summary: ~A TAB-verse AU~In the two years since the loss of his friend Sherlock Holmes at Reichenbach Falls, John Watson has tried his best to move on. When his maid, Jane, reports hearing noises in the attic of John's house, he begins to hope that Holmes means to contact him from beyond the grave. Unprepared for dealing with the realm of spirits, John agrees to consult with four lady scientists, who promise to use their groundbreaking technologies to help him deal with that which haunts him. ~This fic is now complete! Thanks for reading!~





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson sat at the dining room table in his very dusty, very lonely house, reading the morning paper, and waiting. As soon as he'd awoken, he'd gotten himself dressed in the tweeds he'd set out the night before. He'd come down to the dining room to the usual scene: no coffee pot at the ready, no soft-boiled egg, no toast. He only had the paper because he'd fetched it himself.

Jane was a terrible maid. He always had to wait for her, and sometimes she didn't show up at all. When she did, she'd seldom done what John had asked. And when she called him "Sir," her tone held a hint of mockery, as if they both knew he didn't deserve it.

Mary had told him on multiple occasions to fire her.

He could not bring himself to do it. He knew very well the reason why he kept Jane, despite her impertinence, tardiness, and ineptitude.

The fact was, there was something about Jane that John found to be a comfort. In his time with Sherlock Holmes—as Holmes's companion, as his friend, as his personal historian, as a host of potential things that had regrettably gone unspoken—he'd grown accustomed to minor vexation, and never quite feeling like he had the upper hand. He'd also grown used to being constantly amazed and delighted by Holmes's gifts as a consulting detective. He'd never gotten used to, couldn't imagine ever growing used to, the times when there seemed to be something more between them, the times when Holmes looked at him with fire in his eyes, the times when they were both dug in researching some case or other, and Holmes, noting John was exhausted, squeezed his shoulder and told him _go rest, my dear boy_. The times—rare, but all the more precious for their rarity—that John was certain Holmes intended something more carnal by his actions, times when the brush of Holmes's lips against John's ear as they awaited some killer in a darkened room seemed entirely intentional, times when the closeness of his body as he observed John writing, leaning over his shoulder to read his words, seemed an invitation of sorts.

John had been frozen in those days, full of indecision, but certain that if Holmes did not press his advantage, all the feelings that were steadily building up inside of him would surely burst free, and they would at last have their moment. And how grand it would be. How fine, just the two of them against the world.

They never got their chance. Instead, Holmes had gone and thrown himself off a damn waterfall.

At first, John had waited, certain it was some trick. He could not believe that Holmes, he who attended to every detail and seemed to understand and anticipate all things, could have been so sloppy as to actually allow himself to die. It would only be a matter of weeks, perhaps months, before he would return.

A year passed, and more. And still Holmes did not return to Baker Street, and soon John couldn't stand the pain of being there any longer. He finally accepted that his friend was gone.

And so, if Jane sometimes filled him with vexation and grief, and if Jane's tone were sometimes utterly irreverent, and if she kept him waiting in a thousand small ways, and if she argued back when he criticised her, it was perhaps a kind of comfort, a way to keep alive the thornier, less wonderful qualities of Sherlock Holmes, even if the man himself would never be seen again—at least, not until John himself passed into whatever heaven or hell was reserved for men like them.

And so John waited for his breakfast each morning, and sometimes it never came, and sometimes he told Jane that she needed to improve, and she never did, and secretly John thanked her for it.

He had been staring at the paper for fully five minutes without reading a word, when he decided to give up the attempt. He folded it deliberately, placed it on the table, and sighed, fingers tapping on the linen tablecloth that bore the brown, circular stains of a week's worth of coffee cups.

Outside the dining room window, the October sky was a pearly, uniform grey. He would probably need a coat if he wanted to go out later. He didn't want to go out. He didn't want anything from this world, particularly.

Just when he thought that he would be lost in his thoughts for the entire morning, Jane burst in, sans breakfast. Her white maid's apron was besmirched with black ash, her hair in disarray, and her face red.

"Sir!" She was utterly out of breath, gasping as she spoke. "Sir, I've heard noises upstairs again!"

John was on his feet, feeling a mixture of exasperation and concern that was much, much better than the sad nothing he'd been feeling just a moment before. He pulled out a chair, urging her to sit.

She sprawled, throwing her head back most indecorously as she blew out a breath. "Sir, I tell you, there is truly something amiss in the attic."

John pulled out the chair beside her, and sat himself down.

Holmes was long dead, but that did not mean that John had forgotten the times they'd had together, and what it was like when a client came to them with a new puzzle. John could keep up that legacy well enough. At least, he could try. All he needed to do was remember Holmes's methods, and do his best to emulate them.

He took his small notebook and pencil from his vest pocket, and prepared himself to play detective.

"All right, Jane. Are you quite well?"

The girl nodded, and wiped at the sweat on her brow with her forearm, leaving a black mark there. She was brash in her manner, but it bothered John not a whit. He and Holmes had always been quite unconventional together.  

"Very well. Now, tell me what happened."

Jane blinked at him. "It wasn't rats, Sir."

"I didn't say it was, Jane."

"But you did yesterday, Sir. And the day before that, you said it was wind."

"Ah." John _had_ dismissed Jane's complaints about the noise the first two times. He paused to clear his throat. "Well, Jane, that is true. But you see, I put out poison, and we have seen no rats, so I think we can conclude that we've eliminated one very likely explanation."

"It would seem so, Sir." Jane pursed her lips, looking as impertinent as she always did.

"Now Jane, you must admit that rats are a logical explanation for noises in the attic."

"Rats that wear hard soled shoes, Sir."

"Pardon?"

"I did tell you, Sir, that I heard the sound of footsteps in the attic. On Monday _and_ yesterday."

"Did you?" John remembered very clearly that she'd said exactly that, but he hadn't wanted to hear it, preferring to occupy himself writing up one of Holmes's old cases.

"Sir."

The grim relentlessness of Jane's gaze wore John down in no time at all.

"All right, all right."

He was willing to admit—privately, to himself—that he'd been in the doldrums, unable to accept any new information, really. He only wanted the past, and what was lost to him.

It was difficult, because he should be happy. He should be fine. He'd met Mary, and they were together now, and engaged to be married, or at least they would be as soon as he got around to formally asking.

But he wasn't himself at all. He'd dismissed Jane's concerns, and been all too willing to ignore a perfectly good mystery in favour of staying in his black mood. It seemed, however, that the mystery would insist upon itself. He shifted in his chair, embarrassed for his former actions.

"I am sorry."

"Very well, Sir."

"All right." He sat up in his chair, and readied his notebook once more. "So. Tell me again exactly what you heard today, if you will."

Jane nodded and sat up in the chair, straightening her skirt. "First of all, I was in the second bedroom, Sir, sweeping out the grate."

"You mean my study."

Jane took a moment to look imploringly at the ceiling before she replied. "Yes, Sir, I know it's your study now, but when Mistress moves in, you know, Sir, it won't be long before it's a bedroom once more."

John winced. Jane could be surprisingly astute. "What do you mean?"

"No need to frown at me, Sir. I don't mean to imply anything about the state of your future marriage. I'm sure you're very modern, Sir, and will wish to share a bedchamber with your wife. I only meant that Mistress will no doubt want to turn it into a nursery. I'm not a nursemaid, Sir, in case you were wondering, although if Sir should ever wish to get a dog, I'd be very happy to look after him or her, Sir."

John shifted in his chair, and tapped his notebook with his pencil, unwilling to address or even contemplate any talk of marital bedchambers, babies, or dogs. "The noise, Jane, if you will."

"Yes, Sir. I'm getting to it, Sir. You never know what little detail may be important to the case, if you don't mind me saying. I learned that from your stories. I felt the grate cleaning might be important."

John hated it when Jane quoted from his stories. It should be flattering, but somehow it always amounted to her throwing his own words in his face, as part of some argument she seemed to always be holding (and winning) with him.

"Very well. Carry on."

"At first, I thought it was the wind, Sir. There was a sound like the wind in the leaves, a kind of whistling and moaning, but then I thought to look at the curtains. Since it was not a cold morning, I'd opened the window to air out the room. You should really not smoke such a coarse brand of tobacco, Sir. Something lighter would most likely keep you from coughing so much at night."

"Yes, Jane, all right. Your point?"

"My point, Sir, is that there was no wind. I'd opened the window and the curtains didn't so much as stir. Yet there was the sound of wind, or what I thought at first was wind. And then it turned out to be a voice, Sir."

"A voice?"

"Yes. A whisper, really, Sir."

John's stomach turned. He hated to think that he'd been drawn into a tall tale spun by a maid, and yet, here he was, practically bolted to his seat. "And what did it say?"

Jane leaned in, impertinently close, such that her breath, smelling faintly of milky tea and oranges, moved across his cheek. She spoke the words more deeply than her accustomed tone, as if in imitation of a voice John had never forgotten, and longed always to hear.

"The game is on."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John investigates the attic, and discovers a clue.

John spent the remainder of the morning poking his head in and out of the fireplace in his study, straining to hear any sounds that might emerge, and only succeeding in making himself sooty. He squinted up into the chimney, looking for evidence of a bird's nest, or squirrels, or anything that might explain the unusual noises Jane had heard.

All the while, Holmes's voice rattled in John's head:

 _Come Watson, a bird? A bird that's learned to say "The game is on?" A parrot, then? Trained by a fan of your stories to imitate me, and stowed in your attic to torment you? A strange plot indeed._  

It seemed the very suggestion of Holmes's presence was enough to raise a sharp memory of the man himself, which served only to taunt him.

When he could no longer stand the pain in his knees, and he began to feel like an absolute fool, John stood, and brushed the ash from his tweeds.

Jane's report was a mystery, a disturbing and exciting one. John counselled himself to remain steady, to examine the facts. Holmes was dead. He'd died two years before. And yet, and yet—a quiet hope began to stir in John's heart.

If anyone could manage to come back from the other side, to find a way to return, it would be Holmes. John imagined him in some celestial laboratory, creating newer and better incorporeal devices that might punch through that ethereal veil, and defeat the most immovable law of the universe: the mortality of earthly creatures.

He felt himself trembling on the verge of fantasy, ready to plunge into any desperate belief, if it meant he could see Holmes once again.

He shook his head, and stretched the fingers of his left hand to fend off the spasm that gathered there. There was only one more thing to do, that might ground him back in mundane reality, or feed his dearest hopes: ascend to the attic and check for any evidence that might explain what Jane had heard.  

John moved along the hallway, past his own bedchamber and Jane's quarters, and climbed the narrow, steep staircase. Each stair creaked beneath his feet; each breath he took sounded ragged and strained. His heart pounded in a manner not fully justified by the exercise.

If Holmes were back, in whatever form, what might follow? He'd spent more nights than he could count, imagining what he would do, if Holmes were to return, remembering all the things he regretted never saying, about the true direction of his heart.

He'd been terrified, in the old days, of the possibilities, of the idea that Holmes did not truly share his feelings, and of everything it could mean for him, for them, if he did.

If Holmes were only back in spirit, might John still kiss his cold lips? Feel the press of a ghostly lover's embrace?

The weak noonday light filtered in through the single dust-covered window in the wall to John's right as he climbed the final step. The attic was a lonely space, exposed to the caprices of the seasons, boiling in summer and freezing in winter, but now, in the autumnal equilibrium, it was quite lovely, a quiet spot above the noise and dust, with a wonderful view of the city.

First, he checked the poison he'd set out yesterday. He'd mixed it with suet and birdseed, and placed it in small dishes under the low slope where the attic ceiling met the floor, on the periphery of the large open room. It appeared to be untouched. Very well: no rats, then.

He took a moment to examine the storage area, tucked behind a four-foot wall that didn't quite meet the ceiling. There, he found his old steamer trunk, still closed and locked as he'd left it, and a small assortment of boxes he'd brought with him from Baker Street, packed with mementos, including his pistol and hunting knife. These had been in more regular use in his days of adventure, but were not required in his role as doctor.

He did not open any of the boxes. He could not bear to touch them.

On his way back toward the stairs, something new caught his eye, and he inhaled sharply. "Hello."

When last he'd been here, it had already been dark, and he'd brought a single candle that had made it difficult to see anything but the area immediately around him. Now, the long, slanting rays of the sun hit the attic floor at precisely the correct angle to bring his attention to the unmistakable sign that someone had been here. Along the rough planks of the floor, down the centre, where John hadn't walked just a moment ago, the prints of a man's shoes had disturbed the thick layer of dust. Whoever had walked here, had gone back and forth multiple times, creating a track.

Jane really was a terrible maid. John was certain he'd told her to clean the attic once a season, but there was at least a year's worth of dust on this floor.

He reminded himself to give her a raise, even as a thrill moved through him. If she had cleaned, he wouldn't be able to see that someone had been here.

 _Someone_. His heart urged him to call Holmes's name out loud.

No. He could not give himself over to belief yet. He told himself to think rationally, to examine the evidence as thoroughly as Holmes himself would have done.

He was the last one in this attic, so (balance of probability), these must simply be his own prints. He had spent only a few moments placing the poison, however, and remembered only walking on the periphery of the room. Hoping against hope, he moved closer to examine the prints. If they were his, he could confirm that fact easily enough.

He gingerly eased along the board adjacent to the line of prints, and set his foot next to the first distinct one he could find.

The print was at least three inches longer than his shoe. His heart soared, and a small noise of triumph escaped his throat.  

There was no man, no worker, no helper, no chimney sweep, no roof repairer, who had been in this attic in recent weeks.

Still, that did not mean that the prints were Holmes's. He closed his eyes, remembering Holmes's feet, trying to imagine their dimensions. It was easily done, given the many long days he'd spent gazing at them while pretending to read the paper, during those times when Holmes refused to leave their rooms, and, dressed like the Bohemian he was, in underclothes and dressing gown, he luxuriated in his own low mood. John had spent many delightful hours wondering how it might feel to caress Holmes's feet with his palms, to trace the skin over his ankles, to slide his hands higher, over Holmes's knee—

The point was, he was absolutely certain that Holmes's feet were longer than his own.

Hope and fear of disappointment, the habit of grief and the long forgotten joy only Holmes could evoke, clamoured in John's chest and belly as he climbed back down the attic stairs, determined to find Jane immediately, and share the results of his investigations.

He found her in the front parlour dressed in her Sunday clothes, despite the fact that it was certainly Wednesday. She lounged scandalously on his best divan, practically reclined, her feet propped on his favourite ottoman. She sat up as he came in, petulant reluctance marking her features.

She seemed to become much more alert as he told his story. By the time he was finished, he had thoroughly convinced himself that he'd found evidence that Holmes had returned from the dead.

"What do you think of that?" he asked, when he had finished telling her about the prints in the attic.

She nodded, her expression earnest under her jaunty cap with its plaid ribbon. "It's just as I thought, Sir. A real manifestation."

"Is that what they call it?" He couldn't bring himself to say the word "haunting."

"Indeed, Sir."

John paced, his hand squeezing and cramping painfully, his heart full, his mind racing. "What are we to do, Jane?"

She stood, as a cab pulled up outside the house. She must have found some street urchin to summon it for her. "I have already decided. I am going to do some research, Sir."

"Research? You're going out then?"

"Evidently, Sir."

John nodded, too distracted by the possibilities to deny Jane anything, or to make any joke he would usually be inclined to, about the idea of a maid doing research for a case.

This was a case, indeed. Perhaps the most important case of his life.

"I should come with you," he said, in the most authoritative voice he could manage.

"I don't think so, Sir."

He felt his face reddening as he stopped with his hand reaching for his coat, where he'd left it hanging, over the high-backed chair in the corner. Jane had naturally not so much as attempted to put it away in the closet since he'd flung it there on Monday.

"Oh no?"

"No, Sir. I'm going to be spending time with some maids of my acquaintance, Sir."

"Ah! Your gossips, eh Jane?"

"No indeed, Sir. Maids. As I said, Sir." She headed for the door.

John scoffed, following her. "And what good would that do? Talking to other maids." He wanted hard answers to his questions. Could spirits leave footprints in soft attic dust? How did one talk to them? Had anyone ever had more... _substantial_ contact with one? He didn't need advice on scrubbing pots or cleaning Mistress's shoes.

As she reached for the handle, she turned and shot him an arch look. "There's more that goes on in people's houses than you know, Sir. Behind closed doors and drawn curtains, many secrets lie hidden. Then again, there are those folk who must take care of things when they threaten to burst free. If there is anyone who has been haunted, anyone who has found help for it, my maids will know."

Jane did not wait for an answer; she simply shut the door behind her. John frowned as he watched her climb into the cab outside, aware that he had thrown his luck in with a most unconventional co-investigator. Whatever her fellow maids had to say, he supposed he might as well listen, and apply caution if it seemed they had been taken in.

That there were charlatans who claimed that interactions with the spirit world were possible, he was quite aware. He and Holmes had once broken an extortion scheme run by an agency that offered to connect grieving people with their deceased loved ones. The range of tricks the criminals had, from simple illusions to elaborate routines with strange fluids and puppets on wires, was astounding. John knew enough to suspect anyone who claimed authority in matters of the spirit realm, and yet, now that he had a personal stake in it, he eagerly desired any hint that contact with the other side was possible.

As Jane's cab pulled away, he was struck once again by the sharpness of her manner. For lack of a better place to begin, he decided to trust her strange and selective competencies, even if it left him with nothing to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives more than one visitor, and Jane presents him with a course of action.
> 
> ***this chapter changed radically with revision! drug tw, tags have been adjusted, please read tags if you have any concerns***

John spent the afternoon in contemplation, combing through old case files. At first he sought simply to reminisce, but the more he read, the more he found himself searching for any trace, in the paper record or in his memory, of Holmes's thoughts on the afterlife. He looked for any hint Holmes had given that he knew anything, truly, of what happened after death, that he had any occult understanding, or had encountered any science, no matter how obscure or ancient, that spoke of the soul, or the survival of the personality after death.

At long last, sitting in the middle of his study floor with papers strewn all around him, John remembered a conversation he and Holmes had once had, after Holmes had taken a stronger dose of morphine than usual. John had monitored Holmes's pulse, and plied him with coffee, while they waited together for the effects of the drug to pass.

"You need to be more careful. You could have died," John had warned, holding Holmes's warm wrist in his hand.

"Death. S'inevitable anyway."

"But not now," John had replied. "Not yet."

Something in Holmes's posture, something in the way he sighed as John moved his fingertips over the beloved wrist, made John say more than he usually would. "If I lost you, I don't know what I would do."

"Nothing indecorous, I hope. No matter how tempting a corpse I leave behind."

"Holmes!"

"Ah. I don't mean anything by it. Besides, I'm so used to bothering you, my boy, you know I'd probably stick around and continue to do it."

The memory of that conversation mingled with the memory of the flat they'd shared, the warm smell of tobacco and wood smoke from the fire, the warmth of Holmes's skin—all conspired, in the space of John's spartan study, to bring weak tears to his eyes. He blinked and rubbed them away, thinking of how his life in this house was a blank nothing compared to Baker Street.

As afternoon turned to evening, he moved to the parlour, where he sat with the decanter of scotch and waited, listening for any sign of the footsteps Jane had heard, for any hint that Holmes was haunting him as he'd promised. The house was silent.

Jane did not return. Perhaps her research had taken her far afield. John was just as happy to sit, and drink, and brood, as to hear what she had to report, or to accept another of her burnt suppers.

The house was thoroughly dark, the room quiet, except for the occasional sound of the decanter against the rim of his glass, as John slipped further into a dull drunkenness.

Then there came the sound of a key in the lock at the front door, and the familiar squeak of the handle, the slow creak of the hinges, followed by a puff of fresh autumn air, and the clatter of a hansom cab as it drove away, before the door swung shut again.

John sat up, inhaling sharply, less alert than he would like to be. "Holmes?"

"No," a woman's voice said. "Whyever would you think I was him?"

John fought disappointment, even as he recognised his error. Mary stood in the parlour doorway, her head cocked to one side in her customary posture. She'd let herself in.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?" she asked, as she took a box of matches from her coat pocket and moved about the room, lighting the gas lamps.

She had always been familiar with him, a habit that John had appreciated, once. If Mary had been less assertive in the beginning, John would have certainly never taken notice of her. When they'd met, he was certain he was going to be alone for the rest of his life. Alone, and waiting for Holmes.

Just as he'd been, all day.

"Dreams," he lied, smiling a little. "Just—I had some dreams, last night."

"About him?"

"Yes," he said.

"Whatever brought this on?" She stood in the centre of the room, regarding him with an expression that appeared concerned, but carried a substantial air of scrutiny, as well.

Mary had a minor ability to deduce John, and had, since the day they'd met. He'd found it appealing at first. Just like her self-assertion, it had reminded him of Holmes.

Now, he only felt the sting of her gaze, as she folded her arms. "Honestly John, I know you're prone to flights of fancy, but this is not like you."

He stood, stiff from the long hours spent sitting on his study floor and in the chair, and lightheaded from the scotch. He stretched his arms to either side, and groaned as his neck popped.

Mary remained still, her accusation heavy in the air between them.

"My dear," he began, moving across the room to her and patting her on the shoulder.

He paused, not knowing how to continue. Any explanation would make him seem like a madman: what proof did he have, besides footprints in the attic, and what sounded like the fantastic imaginings of an incompetent maid? And could he ever explain the thrill that accompanied the merest hint that Holmes might be trying to return to him?

 _Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other_.

He cleared his throat. Holmes had always tried to be honest about his faults, which were numerous, as were John's. With Mary, John had more often felt that he should hide what he was. There were oceans of sadness within him. She could see the surface, but he could not reveal those depths.

Besides, in this particular case, the truth sounded like insanity.

_When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true._

"Honestly, John. You look very peaked. Are you sure you're well? I've never seen you look so wild."

"I am well," he said, clearing his throat.

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, if a single dream of Holmes can excite you to this degree, I wonder what you must have been like while you were working with him on his cases."

As always with Mary, he felt the drift of the conversation pushing him in a certain direction. He knew what he should say, to keep the peace. He should tell her that his time with Holmes _was_ madness, tell her that there was something wrong with him in those days, or that he and Holmes had indeed had a grand time, but that time was over, and he was happier for having found her. He should tell her that he was counting on her to keep him steady.

This time, he chose a contrary tactic. "Why did you come by?"

Her eyes widened in mock surprise. "Well, I'm very happy to see you too, my darling!"

He shook his head and smiled, placating her, while noting the evasiveness behind her reply. "I am happy to see you. I am. And glad you came, of course."

In days past, it would have been true. He would have welcomed the distraction from his thoughts of Holmes. Now, he wanted the house to be silent. He wanted to listen for any sign, any indication that Holmes was here, in whatever form.

She turned toward the hallway, squinting in the general direction of the kitchen. "Is that girl of yours home?"

"No," he said. "I gave her the day off."

She shot him such a scandalised look, he couldn't help but wither under it. "Indeed? But it's Wednesday."

"She, ah, had to attend to a sick relative."

"So she won't be back tonight?"

"No."

He braced himself for her usual round of scathing criticism of Jane, but she surprised him.

"Well then, I must stay and make you supper."

"No, my dear, that's not necessary at all."

"I insist! Honestly, John, you smell like a distillery. You can't go all night on alcohol alone. You must eat."

For lack of a better idea of what he should do, John followed her down the hallway. As he passed the stairwell, he heard the distinct sound of a stair squeaking, and then another. He looked up toward the landing: the sounds had seemed to come from above it, toward the top of the second flight of stairs. He froze, listening for more.

The house was silent, except for the rustle of Mary's clothes as she turned to look at him. His heart pounded as her gaze shifted toward the stairwell. "What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing. Only, I forgot to blow out the candle in my study. I should go check it."

She raised her brows. "You've been sitting downstairs for some time, John, haven't you? It's probably burned down on its own."

"Can't be too cautious." He turned and raced up the stairs.

In the hallway between the rooms, it was thoroughly dark. John took a few cautious steps toward his study, whispering, "Holmes?"

There was no reply. There was no one there, although he was sure he had heard it, he'd heard the footsteps on the stairs, perfectly well.

Reluctantly, and only after a thorough second check of the upstairs rooms, John returned to the kitchen, to find a scene of perfect domesticity. The warm light of the lamps and the glow of the candles Mary had lit, coupled with the bustle of her movements, should have produced a feeling of utter contentment, but John was restless, occupied with trying to listen for more footsteps moving on the floor above.

"You haven't got anything in at all," Mary complained, rifling through the pantry, and pulling out a block of cheese, a loaf of bread, which John knew, from eating a piece earlier, was very stale, and a bottle of beer. "Rarebit it is."

Once everything was on the stove and toasting and bubbling, she pulled a small glass bottle from her pocket, and began shaking the contents, a fine red powder, into the sauce.

"What is that?"

She smiled at him as she finished stirring, and poured the sauce over the toasted bread. "Paprika. I developed a taste for it when I was a child, and often carry some with me. I think you'll like it."

John nodded. Mary had shared many stories of the years she'd spent traveling with her father, a Professor of languages, throughout Eastern Europe. That she'd developed a taste for some foreign dishes was no surprise at all.

The rarebit did indeed taste delicious with the enhancement of the spice, which added a sweet, complex flavour that was a bit warm on the tongue. There was something else too, a slightly chalky aftertaste, not unpleasant, but notable. John ate without complaint. Mary's cooking was a thousand times better than Jane's, and he was glad to have something heartier on his stomach than scotch.

"And Jane really won't be home later this evening?" Mary asked, as she poured another glass of beer for him.

"No," he said, feeling quite content, full, and tired. The excitement of the day had, perhaps, overwhelmed him.

She nodded pertly. "I'd best do these dishes then. There's no chance she'll tackle them in the morning."

He laughed. "She really is a dreadful maid. Clever though. You'd be surprised."

"I don't think I would."

John sipped his beer, feeling his eyelids droop as he listened to the sound of water running into the sink. By the time Mary had dried the last dish and put it away, John was rather certain he would have to struggle to haul himself up the stairs to bed.

"Well, you look exhausted," she said, leaning over him to kiss his cheek. "I should let you get some rest."

"Fine," he said, relieved at the prospect of being left alone. He felt he could not stave off sleep a moment longer.

He stood, wavered on his feet, and followed her toward the front door. She hesitated as she reached it, and turned to smile at him sweetly. "Go ahead upstairs, John. I'll let myself out."

He nodded, too tired to resist. "Goodnight, then."

He barely got himself up to his room, out of his clothes, and into the bed. He only had time to marvel at the fact that he had never heard the front door open and close, before sleep claimed him.

In his dream, John moved through the upstairs hallway of his own house, walking toward the door at the bottom of the attic stairs, which he could never quite seem to reach. He knew that, if he could only open it in time, he would certainly find Holmes waiting for him on the other side.

The more he moved toward the door, the further away it got, until he found himself with the backs of his legs pressing against the edge of his own bed, and then realised he was lying in it, and had been the whole time. His eyes fluttered open as he came into a dim sort of consciousness, the room dark around him, and the unmistakable sense of a presence at the end of the bed.

He struggled to sit up, but his body was trapped in a kind of paralysis. He could not so much as raise his head, although he managed, or so he thought he did, to utter Holmes's name.

Like a precious memory brought miraculously to life, John felt, as clearly as when Holmes had lived, the movement of his dear friend as he came to the side of the bed and sat down on the edge of it. Fingers caressed John's temple, his cheek. He struggled to sit up, failing utterly. "Christ, I've missed you," he murmured into the dark.

At first, he thought his words had served to send Holmes away, but then the deep voice, full of the old humour, came to him, as if Holmes had never left.

"This won't do, Watson. You must wake up."

The scent of something acrid filled John's nostrils, and he twitched into full wakefulness, gasping and coughing.

There was a sound, of footsteps running down the stairs to the ground floor, then along the passage to the back of the house. There came the distant slam of the kitchen door to the outside.

John sat up in bed, the room spinning around him, as he struggled to put his feet on the floor and stand. He managed it, and stumbled for the window, propping himself up against the sill.

The street below was empty, as he'd expected it would be. It had been a full minute at least, since the door closed. Even if he could make it into his study, which had a view of the back garden, it would probably be too late.

The sense that Holmes had actually been in the room with him was so clear. He sighed as he watched the street for any sign of movement, hoping against hope that Holmes might make an appearance. If he could only catch a glimpse of a spectral form, the smallest hint of a human shape, then he could believe.

Instead, there was the strange sound of something scraping along the wall of the house outside. A smallish person—perhaps an older boy—dressed in black trousers and black shirt, with a black cap on his head, ran across the street and disappeared in a gap between the houses opposite. Some young ruffian, some street urchin, perhaps, evading trouble with the police. Still—it was curious.

He watched for as long as he could keep himself awake, only a few minutes more, before sleep pressed in on him and he had to lie down again.

He slept long into the morning, dreamless, but steeped in hope.

In the light of day, as he rose up through layers of sleep into consciousness, John found that he could not make much of his nocturnal experience. That he had dreamed, vividly, of Holmes being here, in his room, he could earnestly affirm. That it had been sweet, to hear that voice, and feel that touch, was very true indeed. That he had heard footsteps on the stairs shortly after Mary's arrival last night, while he was in his cups, but fully awake nonetheless, he was certain.

Troublingly, he could not remember much else about Mary's visit, except that he'd been very tired. He had been preoccupied, he supposed. He hoped he hadn't said anything untoward.

At the same time, his sudden need for sleep was troubling. He suspected that he was on the verge of nervous exhaustion. That could account for the footsteps: perhaps they were only a hallucination, the fevered imaginings of a mind that had been pushed too far by grief.

As he dressed, he thought of the number of patients for whom he'd prescribed laudanum after the loss of a loved one. Many of them had come to him with stories of hearing the deceased calling their name in the house at night, or feeling someone standing at the end of the bed. Had he joined their numbers?

Then again, he mused, as he buttoned his jacket, there must be some allowance for subjective experience in situations such as these. He _had_ heard Holmes's voice, had felt the man sitting on his bed. If spirits could come through and speak to the living, would they not do it better when the one whom they wished to address was in that limbo between sleeping and waking?

Besides, there was Jane's experience to corroborate what he had felt, and heard. He found himself begrudgingly grateful for her, and eager to see if she had returned from her researches.

John entered the dining room to find that Jane was indeed back home, and had, contrary to his expectations, decided to work today. There was a pot of tea at the ready (cold), toast (gouged where she'd applied the butter knife too vigorously), and a magazine at his place, open to a very peculiar advertisement.

The top of the ad featured a primitive line drawing of a spirit, or at least, that's what John supposed it was, all holes for eyes and baggy shape, like a short mannequin with a sheet draped over it, black mouth agape.

He had to read the text several times over, to understand it.

ARE you PESTERED

by APPARITIONS?

BEDEVILED by INFLUENCES from BEYOND the VEIL?

UNTRUSTING of SCEANCE TRICKSTERS and

FALSE AUTHORITIES on all things GHOSTLY?

**UPON WHOM SHALL YOU CALL?**

CONDUCTORS of the METAPHYSICAL EXAMINATION

Use PROPRIETARY and NEW TECHNIQUES OF SCIENCE

to IDENTIFY and EXPUNGE any SPECTRAL PRESENCE

In your HOME or PLACE OF WORK

We offer PEACE of MIND, RELIEF, and CLARITY

Direct all inquiries to 22 Coldwater Street, Southwark

John finished studying the advertisement, feeling his brow furrow and a choking sensation coming into his throat, although the latter was mostly attributable to Jane's toast.

"Jane!"

From the direction of the kitchen came the sound of something plate-like crashing to the floor. On most days, Jane was never timely when summoned, seeming to drag herself more and more slowly about the house, the more urgently John called for her. Today, however, she slammed through the dining room door, leaving, no doubt, a trail of broken things behind her, to be cleaned up later, or not at all.

"Sir?" Jane was flushed, all breathless and eager.

"What is this?" He held up the ad.

"A new team of investigators, Sir. Sally Donovan from down the street told me her mistress engaged them when her daughter complained of her bed floating at night, and they were most helpful, Sir."

John squinted at the ad again. "Is it not mere hucksterism?"

Jane shook her head. "I don't think so, Sir. Sally Donovan says that they accept no payment unless they find proof of a haunting."

John recalled his earlier thoughts on the subjective nature of spiritual phenomena. He was quite sure he wasn't ready to accept that such things as he'd experienced could be observed by science. "Jane, no one has proof. If someone were able to produce it, the Royal Society would be shouting it from the rooftops."

Jane raised an eyebrow. "Did you not read the ad, Sir?"

John felt his face flush. Of course she would puncture his argument. "I did."

"The Conductors is made up of ladies, Sir. Four unconventional ladies. I expect the Royal Society pays them little attention, Sir."

John looked down at the advertisement. There, in fine print at the bottom, were the names of the ladies in question: Misses Yates, Gilbert, Tolan, and Holtzmann.

Holmes (also unconventional, in every way that delighted John to his very soul) had once called John his conductor of light. Whenever John thought of those words, he secretly saw them capitalised: Conductor of Light. He didn't believe in significant coincidence, in what a more superstitious fellow might have called a "sign," but his skin broke out in gooseflesh nonetheless, as he reread the words "Conductors of the Metaphysical Examination."

Jane was still watching him, expectation written all over her face.

"Unconventional ladies?" he asked.

On impulse, he flipped to the cover of the magazine. He blinked at it, utterly confused. The cover featured a painted image of two women standing under a lamp post, smoking cigarettes and laughing together. They wore the sort of split pantaloons that forward-thinking young ladies used for bicycle riding. He turned through a few pages. The articles seemed to concern the women's vote, travel tips for ladies "going it alone," as the writer would have it, and one utterly scandalous piece on a new method of avoiding pregnancy.

He couldn't imagine a publisher being allowed to carry on with it for long.

"Jane, where did this come from? Where do you buy such a publication? Certainly not at the sort of news vendors I frequent."

Jane shut her mouth, pressing her lips together. "There are people who are interested in such things, Sir, and those who are willing to provide them. As it happens, I had to go quite out of my way to get it, but it was the only way to obtain the ladies' address, since they've moved their shop recently, and Sally Donovan only had their old one. By the time I managed it, it was late, and I had no choice but to stay with a friend."

"Scandalous."

"If you say so, Sir."

He glared at her, but she did not shift. Waiting for him to change the subject, no doubt.

He had no choice but to dig in. He tossed the magazine a little way away from him. "This thing that has been happening," he said, "if it is possible to investigate it, then we shall do so ourselves. After all, I am not inexperienced in such matters."

Jane studied her nails, as if she'd already lost interest in the conversation. "I suppose, Sir."

"In any case, I shan't be inviting four meddlesome amateurs into my home to make up stories about ghosts," he said. He spoke far more decisively than he felt.

"Very well, Sir."

"That's right," he replied. "Tonight, Jane, we shall conduct an investigation of our own."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visitor, a warning, and a near miss.

John poured another strong coffee from the carafe he'd insisted Jane leave in his study, stirred cream into it, added sugar, and took another biscuit from the plate. It was unhealthy, so much stimulant late in the evening, but he had no intention of sleeping. He still wore his suit, hoping the stiffness of the fabric would induce in him a feeling of alertness. It was only ten in the evening, well before the hour when spirits might be most likely to show themselves, and he had a long night ahead of him. True, Holmes had rattled about in the attic during the day, all three times that Jane had heard him, but he'd come to John at night.

This time, he was determined to be awake for it.

Fortunately, there was no hint of the drowsiness of the night before. He felt, although he would have said so yesterday as well, that the sheer force of his hope would keep him awake for days, if necessary.

Despite its ridiculousness, the advertisement Jane had shown him had given him some further cause to feel he was on the right track. If four ladies could claim any competency in hunting spirits, then surely John could manage, somehow, to meet an old, very dear friend (and more) who had crossed over.

Jane came to the study doorway, and rapped her knuckles on the frame. She looked fresh as a daisy in a clean apron, contrary to her custom of allowing filth to accumulate until the apron was ready to walk itself to the laundry tub. He took it as a further sign that she was in her element.

"Ah, Jane. This is an adventure, is it not?"

"I suppose, Sir." Her expression was deadpan; her tone, dreary.

"You don't agree?"

She sighed heavily. "I wonder what method you are using, Sir. For your investigation."

John inhaled sharply, and glared at her. The fact was, when it came down to figuring out how to proceed, he hadn't had any clue. So he'd settled on staying up, and waiting for Holmes to show himself.

"Now, Jane, you might be unfamiliar with how one goes about cases like these, but it's important to gather data first. Only then can we analyse the facts."

"I see, Sir." It was clear from her tone that she did not, in fact, see.

John reminded himself to be generous. Jane had practically offered her services as co-investigator. She'd done her best, he believed, to be of help, even if it meant she'd had to take the entire afternoon off to catch up on sleep, and prepare for tonight's watch.

"Now, Jane, if we are to work together in this investigation, I want your honest opinion. What should be done differently, if you will?"

He would, of course, be gentle with any criticisms he had to offer toward her ideas. There was no need to be ungentlemanly.

"Well, Sir," Jane said, looking at the room all around him. "I suppose I would ask what instruments you intend to use, to detect your ghost?"

John felt his eyebrows all but shoot off his brow. "Instruments? There are no such things, Jane. If there were—"

"The Royal Academy would shout it from the rooftops, yes, Sir. But Sally Donovan says that when her mistress called the Conductors, they came with all manner of equipment and trappings, devices that told them where the trouble was, and more for caging the thing that lurked under the young missy's bed."

John knew he was frowning as he sipped his coffee. He didn't know how to reply. He had no idea there was such a thing as instruments to examine ghosts, beyond the Ouija board and the crystal ball, or whatever tricks charlatans used.

As Jane had spoken, he'd begun to think of all the experimental procedures Holmes had devised, but never shared with the police, or any other official body. It was possible for genius to lurk on the fringes of the sciences, and never be recognised. However unlikely it was that women could produce effective results, he had to keep an open mind. A few days ago, he hadn't believed in ghosts.

"Well, Jane. I—" he began. He did not know how to finish.

"Don't worry, Sir. I am certain that your eyes and ears, experienced as they are in investigation, will turn up significant results."

John was still frowning into his coffee when the sound of a knock came from downstairs, causing him to jump and nearly spill his drink. "Good God! Who could be calling at this hour?"

Jane shrugged, but made no move to go downstairs and answer the door.

"Well?"

"Sir?"

After a few prolonged seconds of glaring, Jane turned and dragged herself down the stairs.  

Nerves jangling, John followed a few moments later, to find a harried Detective Inspector Lestrade standing in his parlour.

"Lestrade! How are you?" John shook the man's hand firmly.

They'd always been good friends, or so he'd thought, in the days when Scotland Yard frequently called on Holmes for help. Since Holmes's death, Lestrade had been a bit of a stranger. John supposed he hadn't helped matters. The last time Lestrade came round, John had been in his cups, and utterly gloomy.

That Lestrade had turned up now, of all times, seemed a significant coincidence. John fought the urge to shiver. His arms and the back of his neck broke out in gooseflesh.

"Dr. Watson," Lestrade said, searching about the room as if he were looking for someone, or something. He didn't seem able to meet John's gaze.

"Are you quite well, Lestrade? You look rather distracted."

"Fine, yes, fine," he said, leaning in closely to talk to John in low tones. "Miss Morstan isn't here, is she?"

John took a step back. "No, she isn't. I haven't seen her since last evening."

Lestrade had only met Mary once, when John had brought her to a picnic sponsored by the Yard, for children in one of the poorer parishes. As John recalled, she'd looked rather bored, and Lestrade had hardly taken notice of her, occupied, as he was, with entertaining some of the smaller children by letting them hang off his shoulders and arms.

"Ah," Lestrade said. "All right then." He nodded as if the information meant something terrifically important.

"What is going on?" John asked, the question coming out more loudly than he would have liked. "And what has Mary to do with anything?"

Lestrade looked at him with mild surprise.

"I didn't mean—" John said. "I only wondered why you were asking."

"Just wondering how she was," Lestrade said, in a tone so tentative and strange that John had no idea how to interpret it.

"All right," John replied, struggling to recall anything at all that Mary had said last night, or anything he'd said to her. As the day had proceeded, the few details he could remember from her visit had faded, and taken on a patina of unreality.

"All right indeed," Lestrade said. "Well, sorry to dash, but listen, Watson, take care of yourself, please." He took John's hand, and shook it, using the connection to pull John in closer. "Sincerely, be careful. There've been rumours coming in of late, very odd."

The thrill of days gone by, spent chasing down criminals and risking life and limb, moved through John, an utterly welcome sensation. It seemed the spirit of Holmes was making itself felt in more than one quarter. Perhaps the veil really was thinning between the worlds. Perhaps, as Holmes had once said to him, the game was never over.

"What rumours?" he asked, hearing the excitement in his own voice.

Lestrade winced, watching him carefully. "Just—traces of Moriarty's old circle coming out of the woodwork. To what end, we've no idea."

The name inflamed the old hatred in John. He and Holmes had argued bitterly over Holmes's seeming fascination with Moriarty's games, more visciously than ever in the days before Holmes had died. Still, he couldn't blame Lestrade for that. The man was only doing his best to warn John.

"Very well." He clapped Lestrade on the shoulder. "I will keep a constant watch. And if I can help at all, please let me know."

"Indeed," Lestrade said, the distress he'd worn on his features since the beginning of the conversation not abating in the least.

As Jane had not taken Lestrade's coat, and he was still wearing it, he left without further discussion.

John found Jane in the kitchen, putting together a plate of sandwiches and another carafe of coffee.

"For your vigil, Sir," she said.

"That's—very nice, Jane."

"It's going to be very trying, Sir, staying up all night."

"Yes, no doubt." John found himself nearly touched by Jane's apparent care for his wellbeing.

He carried the tray up to his study, mind still busy with thoughts of Moriarty's circle and whatever plans they might be hatching. Jane retired to her room. They could not both sit up all night together. It would be most indecorous.

Upon opening the door to his study, John nearly dropped the tray.

There, on his desk, sat his pistol and hunting knife.

"Jane? Jane!" He shouted her name as he rushed to put down the tray and search the desk for any clue as to how his belongings had come to be there. He knew very well they'd been up in the attic, locked away in his trunk, along with other items from his Baker Street days.

Jane appeared in the doorway. "Sir?"

"Did you put these here?" he gestured at the desk.

"What are those, Sir?"

"Weapons, Jane. Clearly."

"Yes, Sir. But I've never seen them before in my life."

He studied her. After all the things she'd said about believing there was a ghost in the house, after all her prompting to seek out the Conductors and investigate the haunting, it simply wouldn't make sense for her to pull a silly prank. Additionally, she had come downstairs with him when Lestrade came to the door. John would have heard her if she'd tried to climb back up the stairs, and it had been clear, from the coffee and sandwiches, that she had indeed been in the kitchen the entire time.

Someone else had placed these mementos of the old days on his desk.

John took up the pistol, feeling its weight once again, like an old friend, heavy in his hand, and looked to the door into the hall. "Step aside, Jane, and stay here, if you will. I need to check the attic." He plucked the candle up from his desk and held it in front of himself as he moved down the hallway.

John felt the flames of old adventures burning in his blood as he climbed the attic stairs. He slowly approached the top, aware of Lestrade's words of warning, while at the same time, eager to see if Holmes's spirit might manifest itself. As he came into the attic, he held the candle out to examine the centre of the floor.

More footsteps had marred the dust, tracing not just the path down the middle of the room, but swirls here and there, as if there'd been a scuffle. John held his pistol aloft and at the ready. He moved as quickly as he could toward the area where his trunk was stored, the same trunk which had, until moments before, contained the very gun he held in his hand.

"Holmes?" he whispered. "Holmes, are you there?"

He reached the back of the attic, and peered behind the low wall.

The boxes were in the exact same configuration he remembered from the day before. The lock on the steamer trunk appeared undamaged, and was still closed.

"Holmes?" he called out. Could a spirit move a gun and knife through the solid casing of a trunk? He had no idea what was possible.

Just then, a loud, piercing scream sounded from the floor below.

In a flash, John thundered down the stairs, only to find an utterly pale Jane standing in the hallway, her body held taut in a kind of rictus.

"What was it?" John demanded. "Jane, what did you see?"

Below them, on the ground floor, John thought he could hear a kind of thumping, as if someone were opening a window. Then, there was silence, and the sound of Jane's laboured breathing.

Dying to know what had happened, John ushered the trembling girl into his study, and sat her down in his chair. He thrust a large glass of brandy into her hand, added a generous splash to his empty coffee cup, and drank it down, then waited until his thumping heart slowed, and his hands grew steady once more.

After a few moments, Jane had downed her own drink. Colour returned to her cheeks, and the faintest trace of the familiar pert smile returned to her lips.

"There now," John said. "Can you tell me what happened? Please, Jane. I must know." He could not stand the sensation of suspense.

Jane looked at him balefully. "Mr. Holmes."

John stumbled backward as if Jane had struck him. "Pardon?"

"That is who I saw, Sir. It was Mr. Holmes, or, his spectre, Sir."

Tears threatened to spring to John's eyes, and his throat grew so tight, he could barely speak. Holmes, show himself to Jane, but not to John? It could not be. After all his grief, and all his waiting, he could not believe it. "How do you know it was him? You never met him, when he was living, did you?"

"No, Sir. I never did, but he appears in your stories, in the illustrations, Sir. And there's something about his face that's quite distinctive, is there not?"

"There was." The past tense verb sat in the air, regrettable, and perhaps, now, especially now, irrelevant. John pushed past it. "But Jane, you're sure? You must be sure."

"I am, Sir."

"But only having seen the illustrations, his likeness—" John couldn't have said why he was arguing so vigorously. If Holmes had been seen, _could be seen_ , then perhaps John could see him too, however briefly. Indeed, it must have been Holmes who left the pistol and knife for him to find. A message, the same as Lestrade's: beware. It was good news, even if he struggled with hurt feelings.

"Well, Sir, there's that tintype you keep in your desk drawer," Jane said.

John cleared his throat. He had never shown that particular picture to anyone, although he looked at it often. Under normal circumstances, he would chastise Jane for looking through his things, but he couldn't bring himself to do that now.

"So it was him." His words came out in a rush of breath, as much a sigh as a sentence. Relief and sadness tore through him. He believed. It was true.

"Sir, it was. Perhaps, Sir, he has come because you miss him so much."

John blinked, the complexity of his emotion too much for him to bear. He thought, not for the first time this week, that he'd grossly underestimated Jane. Perhaps she really did understand more than he could ever bring himself to disclose.

"Did he say anything?"

"No Sir! He merely stared at me, as eerie as could be, and then went down the stairs."

"Downstairs?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Why did you not say so? He could be here still!"

As he crashed down the stairs to the ground floor, taking them two at a time, John had one perfect moment of clarity regarding exactly how absurd he was, chasing after a phantom. If Holmes truly were haunting the house, he could appear and disappear at any time, go down the stairs only to manifest again in the attic. Still, it seemed appropriate, this rushing about. John had been chasing phantoms since Holmes's death, and would most likely continue to do so for the rest of his days.

Jane, who had run behind him, moved through to the parlour, as he checked the kitchen. They met again in the dining room, both of them out of breath and staring at the other.

"Well?"

"Nothing, Sir."

Only there, in the dining room, did John feel as though things were out of place: the windows were still firmly shut, but the room was cold, and smelled of crisp autumn air.

On the table, Jane's magazine lay open to the advertisement she'd left for John at breakfast.

John thumped the table with his fist. Enough. He could not understand why Holmes would not just show himself, since it had become clear that he could do so. It was time to bring in someone who claimed experience in such things. He would rule out no avenue of research, even if it meant indulging in the absurd. In fact, if there were any truth at all in Jane's claim, that these ladies could trap a spirit, he was all for it. It was time to pin Holmes down. John imagined himself demanding an explanation or two. He was owed that, at least.

"Jane, it is settled. First thing in the morning, we shall call on those unconventional ladies of yours, and see what they have to say about all this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having so much fun posting this! I hope you're having fun reading. Thank you for all your amazing comments. As I'm editing I'm finding I'm rewriting a ton of it, so posting *might* not continue to be daily, but will be as fast as I can manage. xoxo


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Jane visit the Conductors of the Metaphysical Examination.

John sat up in the dining room until the light of the rising sun began to streak the clouds to the east in red and gold. He'd sent Jane up to her room to rest shortly after their adventure, reasoning that it wouldn't do for both of them to be utterly exhausted the next day, when they made their expedition to Southwark. As for himself, he believed that he would be incapable of sleep, until such time as Holmes came to him, and made all right again.

When he could no longer keep his eyes open, unwilling to give up on his vigil entirely, he went into the parlour and tucked himself into one of the armchairs, his feet up on the ottoman, a tartan blanket pulled up under his chin.  

He'd only intended to rest for a few moments, but he fell into a light slumber, disturbed by hectic dreams of the kitchen door to the backyard opening and shutting. In one such interlude, Holmes hovered over his shoulder, and whispered words of affection: "How I've missed you, my dear boy. Almost time to renew our acquaintance."

John woke to the sound of Jane's voice, and the sensation of being struck repeatedly on the shoulder. "Sir, it's morning. Sir."

As he stirred, she pushed a cup of tea into his hand. He sipped obediently.

"No coffee?"

She shook her head. She was pale, with dark circles under eyes. Nonetheless, she practically glowed with excitement. She'd had a shock the night before, an unfortunate one, but she was, no doubt, pleased at his agreement to pursue the line of inquiry she had been suggesting all along.

"This is fine," he said, draining the cup. "With the night we've had, we need more soothing than wakefulness, eh Jane?"

"I'd say so, Sir."

"Ready, then?"

"Ready."

The trip to Coldwater Lane was made short, thanks to the combination of cab and the briskness of John's pace. Jane kept up with him well as they hurried along the hard-packed dirt of a Southwark side street, as well as Holmes ever had, practically skipping along beside him.

"Pleased to be out and about, eh, Jane?"

Jane smiled, an expression so unabashedly happy, John nearly lost his footing. "If you don't mind me saying so, Sir, I'm very much looking forward to meeting these ladies."

"Thinking they'll be kindred spirits, then?"

"I hope so, Sir. Only it's more than that. I'm glad to know that they're doing what they do, Sir."

John jumped over a puddle, and side-stepped a pile of offal that someone had tipped into the street. "Are you so concerned about the problem of hauntings, Jane?" She'd never struck him as excessively emotional or given to fear. Quite the opposite.

"It's a sticky issue, no doubt, Sir, but, I think, like any other problem, it only requires the application of correct technique to resolve it."

"Very well. So that is not the cause of your excitement."

She paused in the middle of the street, and looked up toward the morning sky, as if lifting up her thoughts as high as they could go. What she said next surprised him utterly.

"It's the fact that ladies might do something more in this world than housework. I know many of us do other things, but still, we are limited. None of the choices available to me has struck me as very exciting. But here they are, these ladies, running experiments and making new discoveries in an area of study that is quite untouched, Sir. Even women of my estate. I understand that at least two of them come from quite humble origins."

They reached the corner of Coldwater Street, which was, in fact, little better than a narrow alley with handful of ramshackle buildings along it.

John felt himself quite taken aback as they took the final few steps of their journey. It had never occurred to him that Jane might be bad at her job because she was discontented, although that seemed the likeliest explanation, now that he was applying some common sense and empathy to the situation.

Unaccustomed as he was to making displays of interest in Jane's wellbeing, he struggled to formulate his next sentence.

"Would you like to do something different, Jane?"

She slowed in her steps, and frowned at him. "Are you offering to dismiss me, Sir?"

She was, as always, defiant, and unafraid to ask difficult questions. The morning sun, still low in the sky, and just reaching them through a gap in the buildings, struck the plaid ribbon on her hat, setting the gold piping on its edges to glimmering.

Old emotions mixed with new to produce a peculiar catch in John's throat. "I am offering to help you, Jane. It has become clear to me that you are far too clever for housework. What resources I can offer you, when all this is over, I would like to use to set you up in something more suitable to your talents." ~~~~

As an even more lovely smile, full of mischief and delight, broke out over Jane's face, John mused that, in all time he'd lived with Holmes and enjoyed the life of adventure they'd shared, it had never occurred to him to imagine that there were those who might like—or, to put a finer point on it, _need_ —the exact same thing, but were unable to eschew society's expectations. A damn shame. He hadn't managed to throw off all sense of propriety while the two of them had been together. In many ways, he'd failed to uphold the contrary, rebellious, adventurous spirit of the man. He hadn't even managed to overcome his own hesitation during Holmes's lifetime, and he regretted it acutely.

Jane deserved a chance to do better than he had. If he could find her a more appropriate situation, he would. She deserved a chance to be as happy as he had been.

"Here we are, Sir," Jane said, pointing the way toward one of the buildings on their left.

The offices of the Conductors of the Metaphysical Examination stood above an establishment that bore a painted Chinese dragon on its door, the mark of an opium den. A small but tasteful sign with the Conductors' acronym—CME in cream letters on a blue background—was posted on the wall to the left of this lower door, beside a darkened stairwell. Underneath the letters was a painted hand, pointing up the stairs.  

Just as John was about to start on his way up, two unsavoury types, old sailors by their looks, stumbled out through the dragon door and toward him and Jane, propping each other up as they came. The taller one—an imperious looking fellow with a long, thin beard and a cloth wrapped around his head like a turban—released his companion in favour of stumbling into John, jostling him.

"I apologise for any inconvenience. I am most sorry," he slurred, hands gripping John's shoulders, then slipping lower, running across his chest. John had no choice but to hold the man by the waist. Most embarrassing, finding himself in this simulacrum of an intimate embrace, so early in the day, and in public.

"You should be, Sir." John pushed the man back into an upright position, surprised by his scent, a pleasant combination of wood smoke, tobacco, and something John couldn't place.

"I assure you, I am," the man told him, the look in his eye a little sharper than John would have expected, given the state of him. John watched as he walked away, his loose-fitting clothes giving no real hint of the form beneath, a clear limp showing in his left leg, which seemed to fade the further away he got. The man turned and looked at John once, over his shoulder, and then disappeared around the corner, while his friend hobbled away in the opposite direction. Curious.

"Sir," Jane said, "let's go up."

They knocked on the door they found at the top, and waited for admittance.

"Mr. Beckman! Door!" a female voice bellowed from inside.

Jane turned to John and smiled broadly. At least _she_ was enjoying herself.

"Uh, it's right where you left it," a male voice replied.

"No, _answer_ the door," another voice intoned.

"Well, you're standing right in front of it," the man said. "I can't reach it now."

"Honestly?"

"Honestly, Miss Yates. The hallway's narrow."

"All right."

The door opened, and they were met with a woman who looked at him and Jane with wide, exasperated brown eyes. Instead of a dress, she wore a utilitarian pair of bloomers that tucked into rubber boots. On top, she wore a blouse that had, perhaps, once been white, and a woollen vest. Both were besmirched with vivid green stains.

"Yes?" she said.

John cleared his throat. "We are here on business."

Another woman appeared behind the first, dressed in the same manner, but much taller, and of African origin.

"Business?" she said. "Abby, let them in."

The first woman eyed them up and down.

Someone spoke from the back of the queue, a slender woman with blue eyes and a quick manner of speaking. "What business, exactly? You aren't from the Royal Society, are you?" She yanked the sole man—Mr. Beckman, who was, as it turned out, a young, tall, devilishly handsome person—out of the way.

John waited for the man to rebuke her, but just the opposite occurred.

"Kevin, go back to your desk. Royal Society's here. I always knew there'd come a day when they finally acknowledged our work." The woman pushed her way forward, past her friends, and stuck out her hand for John to shake. "Erin Gilbert. So pleased to make your acquaintance. Let us show you around. You won't be disappointed. I think you'll find we've developed many amazing innovations in spectral identification and isolation."

"Erin, that's not the Royal Society," the woman directly in front of John said. She looked him up and down. "At least, not unless their standards have changed."

"John Watson. I beg your pardon." John puffed himself up under what was swiftly becoming an uncomfortable amount of scrutiny.

"Excuse me," Jane said, stepping forward. "If you don't mind us saying so, the fact is, we're here because we have a ghost."

A few frantic moments later, John found himself ushered into the Conductors' lair, and pushed into an uncomfortable armchair, the springs of which seemed determined to punch a hole through his tweeds. Someone thrust a very large brandy into his hand, which he sipped at, for lack of something better to do, despite the early hour. 

The office was, apparently, a flat that had been converted into a mad scientist's laboratory. Everywhere John looked, sparks crackled from one piece of infernal machinery or another. In a far corner, a woman with wild blonde hair applied a blow torch to a piece of metal, all the while staring at him and Jane. John attempted to smile, and ended up nodding awkwardly.

The woman who had first greeted them at the door sat in one of four hard backed chairs she'd arranged opposite John and Jane. The woman with the keen interest in the Royal Society sat next to her.

"All right. You've met Miss Erin Gilbert, who works on electromagnetic spirit location devices. I'm Abby Yates. I've specialised in interpreting expressions of the dead through photography and phonograph recordings. Miss Jillian Holtzmann—over there in the corner—she's weapons and containment."

At this, Miss Holtzmann waved a hand which held a device that looked like a small pistol. Sparks exploded in the air around her head, an effect akin to a minor fireworks display. The room filled with a miasma of blue smoke.

"Could use some more containment," Miss Gilbert murmured.

Beside John, Jane giggled.

At this, the other woman who'd greeted them at the door sat in the chair beside Miss Yates.

"I'm assuming I don't need to formally introduce Miss Patricia Tolan," Miss Yates said, gesturing at her friend.

John raised his eyebrows. "I—"

"No indeed," Jane said. "I read all about your exploits at the Pyramids." She turned toward John, looking at him expectantly. "Sir, Miss Tolan was behind the incident at Giza last year. It was all terribly exciting."

Miss Tolan made a modest noise. "Oh well. Just part of a day's work."

John tried to smile and appear interested, even as he wracked his brains for some memory that might assist him. "I am sorry," he apologised.

"Come, Sir. You must at least recall the earthquake that felled the Temple of the Sphinx and the Valley Temple of Khafre." Jane looked at him as if he were a complete embarrassment.

He did dimly remember. "Yes? An unfortunate natural occurrence."

"That's what you've been led to believe." Miss Holtzmann, who'd somehow managed to sneak her way into the chair Miss Yates had set out for her, spoke suddenly, a grin on her face. She stuck out her hand toward Jane, who took it, blushing furiously. "Jillian. Holtzmann. Holtz. Jillian. Hello."

When Jane had finally let go of Miss Holtzmann's hand and recovered herself, she turned to John. "Sir, Miss Tolan was instrumental in stopping a major uprising of the dead in Giza. It seems some of her archaeological colleagues were interested in unearthing more than treasures."

"Oh, it was nothing, really." Miss Tolan said. "Just dismantling some occult instruments and stopping the dead before they could escape from the tomb."

Miss Holtzmann leaned over and stage whispered in Miss Tolan's ear. "You faced the reanimated dead." She shot John an arch look. "Most people would have run away. This one decided to fight back."

"True," Miss Tolan conceded.

"You killed thirty mummies."

"Yes."

"You set up a harmonic resonance field that collapsed the buildings on top of them before they could escape."

"Well." Miss Tolan shrugged and studied her hands. "Some people have argued I destroyed an international treasure."

"You stopped an apocalypse."

"Let's not exaggerate."

Miss Yates and Miss Gilbert exchanged bright looks with Miss Tolan and Miss Holtzmann.

 "Third apocalypse last year!" The ladies all shouted simultaneously, and proceeded to clap each other on the back and laugh uproariously.

John straightened his coat and sipped his brandy, quite out of his element.

"I don't understand," he said. "Why was none of this in the papers?"

Jane, who was gazing at the ladies, and especially Miss Holtzmann, with open adoration and amazement, spoke on their behalf. "Why are your cases printed in _The Strand_ , Sir, alongside the inventions of Mr. Dickens and Mr. Wells, and not in the newspapers?"

"We were in the news."

"On occasion, your cases were reported, but Detective Inspector Lestrade appeared more often in the news than you did. As for your own writing, your stories were presented in such a way that whoever wished to could read them as fiction, Sir. People do not imagine such adventures to be possible. They would believe even less so, were the main players heroines, instead of heroes. Such stories would not even be considered for _The Strand_. Fortunately, there are such publications as will print them, although you won't find them at the sort of news vendors you frequent."

Miss Holtzmann's eyes were shining as she listened to Jane's speech.

"You're sassy," she said. "I like that."

John was rendered silent, uncertain how he should respond to what he should have seen all along, as a self-evident truth. He and Holmes had been through much, had seen more, than most people would ever have believed to be true. He understood, now, that these ladies were on the side of the angels, the same side that he and Holmes had played on.

"Well," he finally settled on saying. "It is good to know that I am in the hands of experts."

He briefly cast his eye at the clerk, Mr. Beckman, who was busying himself by spilling ink on his desk, and, by all appearances, trying to talk it into going back in the bottle, as if it were a reluctant animal. ~~~~

After watching Kevin's behaviour for a long moment, Miss Yates turned to look at John again.

"All right, Mr.—"

"Watson. John."

"Mr. Watson. Can you tell us, from the beginning, what exactly you've seen?"

John sat up in his chair, placing his drink on the small round table that stood beside his chair. "Well, I've heard more than I've seen." He looked at Jane, unsteadily. "But I believe, and Jane here can confirm, that—" he cleared his throat. Now that he had to say the words aloud, he felt suddenly self conscious. "I believe that my dearest friend, Sherlock Holmes, is back from the dead."

John stared at his hands, where he'd clasped them on his lap. He used the thumb of his right hand to rub the muscles of his left, so as to avoid the habitual spasm that so often overcame him in moments of stress. When he dared to look up at the ladies arrayed around him, he saw more looks of confusion than of shock or amazement. Only Miss Tolan seemed to be impressed by his claim.

"I'm sorry," Miss Holtzmann said. "Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes. The detective? He—" John cleared his throat. "He died."

"Oh! Oh you!" Miss Tolan stood, and extended her hand toward John. When he took it, she shook it vigorously. " _Those_ stories in _The Strand_! Dr. Watson! _The_ Dr. Watson!" She looked at her colleagues, her eyes wide in disbelief. "Come on. You don't know him? Dr. Watson? Sherlock Holmes? _A Study in Scarlet? The Speckled Band?_ " She made a gesture with her hands, miming something wrapped around her neck. "With the snake? No?"

Miss Yates looked at her with raised eyebrows, and shook her head very slightly, _no_. Miss Holtzmann leaned back in her chair, her pantalooned legs sprawling in a most unladylike way, and shrugged, after which—and John was fairly certain he didn't mistake the matter—she winked at Jane. Miss Gilbert merely looked at him with sympathy. 

Miss Tolan shifted her gaze back to John. "You'll have to excuse them. They're geniuses, really, but not a single one of them follows the news, or knows anything about current events."

"Excuse you," Miss Holtzmann replied. "Tesla built his power plant in Niagara Falls just this year. That's news. Of course, I would have done it without quite so many safety protocols but—" she shrugged nonchalantly.

"But he died in Switzerland," Miss Tolan said, still watching John.

"Tesla died in Switzerland?" Miss Holtzmann said, half standing out of her chair. "Let's go! Maybe now that he's dead he won't be so opposed to talking shop with me."

"No, not Tesla. Sherlock Holmes." Miss Tolan glared at Miss Holtzmann. "Honestly, Holtz. The man's in pain."

"How do you know that?" Miss Holtzmann said. "Patty, are the drugs I'm slipping into your tea finally working? Are you psychic now?"

"The cases might have been limited to publication in _The Strand_ , but _this_ was in the papers. In _all_ of the papers." Miss Tolan leaned back in her chair so she could pin Miss Holtzmann with a look. "You'd better be kidding about the drugs, Holtz."

"Please," Miss Yates said. "No one wants to hear about the drugs right now."

Mr. Beckman piped up from his desk in the corner. "I would."

"Shut up, Kevin," the women said, in chorus.

"I'm sorry," Miss Gilbert said. "Go on. Tell us about—tell us about what happened. Switzerland?"

John nodded. It was difficult to speak of it. He cleared his throat, and adjusted his position on his chair. "Holmes died a violent death. Fell, or was thrown, off the Reichenbach Falls. At least—a body was never recovered, but. Indeed. Switzerland."

Miss Yates and Miss Gilbert exchanged a look.

"And he's been showing up where? In your house? Here, in London?" Miss Gilbert asked.

"Yes, indeed, since this past Monday."

Miss Yates chimed in. "And you've seen him?"

"Well I've heard him. And—felt him."

"Nice," Miss Holtzmann said, in a tone that struck John as less than appropriate.

"Jane has seen him."

"All right. So," Miss Yates said, "if this really is him, then we're talking about a—"

Miss Gilbert was already nodding. The two of them finished Miss Yates's sentence together, practically squealing with delight: "A locally discontinuous apparition with probable emotional entanglement!"

"Yes!" Miss Yates said, raising her fist in the air.

"Oooh, this is exactly according to my latest theory," Miss Gilbert gushed. "I've always thought it was possible. I just never imagined we would see one of these!"

"I'm sorry," John said. "I don't follow. What is your theory?"

"Well," Miss Tolan said, "When a person dies, especially violently, there's a good chance that they'll remain stuck in the place they died. If they manifest themselves, they'll do it there."

Miss Gilbert sat forward on the edge of her chair. "That's a locally continuous apparition. Locally _dis_ continuous apparitions show up elsewhere, often where there's a big power surge, electric, or—"

" _Radio-actif_ ," Miss Holtzmann added, sardonically.

"Right!" Miss Gilbert continued. "Or some kind of vortex, natural, metaphysical, or of occult origin. That sort of thing will pull spirits in from all kinds of places, some of them far-flung."

"I once saw the spirit of an American gentleman in the mountains of Tibet," Miss Holtzmann said. "He seemed quite confused about why he was there, and he just kept—gesturing at me. It was weird."

John frowned at her. Beside him, Jane murmured, "Amazing," in a tone that John found familiar, although he'd never heard Jane use it before. She was gazing at Miss Holtzmann.

Ah. He recalled using that exact word to describe Holmes's deductions, at the first crime scene they'd visited together.

"The point is," Miss Gilbert said, "Abby and I have been working on a theory, that there are some forces in this world that can operate just as powerfully on spirits as a big metaphysical vortex or an explosion at a power generator. For some spirits, there's one force in particular that might be utterly irresistible."

"I don't understand," John said. "Of what are you speaking?" He couldn't imagine any such force being in his house. It was such a dull place.

The ladies were all staring at him. Miss Yates's eyes were practically shining, and Miss Gilbert and Miss Tolan wore soft smiles. Miss Holtzmann put her hands behind her head, tilted back in her chair, and nodded in a fashion that made John quite self-conscious.

"Love," Miss Gilbert said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whee! I have been so looking forward to posting this! Some thoughts:
> 
> I adored the Ghostbusters movie to pieces, but I thought that Patty Tolan was given short shrift in terms of her role in the group, so I made her a super badass archaeologist / Indiana Jones type. Everyone else is just as awesome as they were, I think.
> 
> Did you spot the Doctor Strange reference (ish)?
> 
> Holtz uses the term "radio-actif" instead of "radioactive" because the term was coined in French in 1898. Technically this story takes place in 1895 (ish), so I'm cheating a bit, but I like to think that Holtz would have been buddies with Marie Curie, and maybe have a running joke with her about how radium safety protocols are for dudes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Conductors begin their investigation of John's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting. I was distracted by current events. :( Here we go!

The next minutes were all business and noise. John stood up out of his uncomfortable chair, eager to know what he could do to help, with whatever preparations the ladies thought necessary.

They, however, seemed to have a different idea: specifically, that he needed more care than activity. Miss Gilbert poured strong tea, and added a splash of brandy. She pushed John back down into the chair, and pressed the cup into his hand.

"Once we've packed our things, Dr. Watson, we'll take you and Jane back home, and see what we can find." She patted him on the shoulder. "This must be very hard for you. But if we're right, just know that Mr. Holmes has come back because he feels how much you love him. That's not a small thing."

With nothing else to do but sit back and watch the ladies busy themselves with their preparations, John realised how constantly he'd felt, for the last two years, exactly this way. He'd been stuck in place while the world whirled around him, a constant stream of movement and events.

On occasion, one of the women would cast a glance his way, and then carry on with stuffing more items into a series of hatboxes and carpet bags that quickly accumulated by the door to the outside. They did not engage him, rather spending their time much better, arguing with each other.

John had, certainly, been excessively passive when it came to the trajectory of his life since Holmes died. Even Mary had been a thing that happened to him, more than something he had chosen. He had been waiting—for Holmes, for nothing at all—and she'd slipped into the space beside him, before he'd realised it.

He blinked hard, sniffing back a sudden surge of emotion.

"Saddle up, saddle up!" Over at her worktable, Miss Holtzmann clapped her hands and wiggled her fingers over her instruments, as if trying to feel her way into choosing just the right one.

Jane hovered nearby, watching with intense interest as Miss Holtzmann showed her how to use a blowtorch to set fire to a number of things, including a sheaf of photographs, and a series of boiled sweets. The room quickly filled with the noxious scent of burnt paper and sugar. Jane giggled, her expression full of unabashed delight, a sharp contrast to her usual mode. ~~~~

John and Holmes had been such a pair, unconventional and unrepentant. And yet, as he watched Miss Holtzmann take Jane's hand and kiss it, after the manner of any young man who has come courting, he felt the full force of his inadequacies. Now, as he sat and waited, it made him all the more determined to convey to Holmes the full extent of his passionate regard, even if it meant negotiating the difficulties of Holmes's ghostly state. Better—worlds better—than no Holmes at all.

Over in the corner, Miss Yates and Miss Gilbert began squabbling about the best way to go about provoking a _locally discontinuous apparition_ , as they called it. The core question seemed to be whether to bring a large jar filled with a green and glowing liquid that would, according to Miss Yates, "help him build his ectoplasmic form," whatever that meant. The primary alternative was to use something they both referred to as "the cage," a device like a bear trap, attached to a series of cranks and springs.

Miss Tolan, who was in the process of attaching a coiled whip to her belt, took a seat in one of chairs next to John. "It won't be long now," she told him, finishing her task. "I know it appears chaotic, but they're almost ready." She waved her hand in the general direction of her colleagues.

Miss Gilbert and Miss Yates seemed to have finally settled the ectoplasmic question, and had sent Mr. Beckman down to the street to fetch their carriage. Miss Holtzmann, on the other hand, was busy untangling an elaborate harness that seemed to have holsters for no fewer than seven weapons.

"They do love their toys," Miss Tolan said.

John smiled. "You don't approve?"

She raised her eyebrows, her smile sly. "They've made some amazing things, for sure. But I like to improvise." She patted the whip at her side.

"You really are all mad, aren't you?" John couldn't help but smile as he asked the question.

"I thought so, when I first signed on. I thought I was mad, too. But then I realised that there's simply a lot more going on in this world than most people ever know." She smiled at him. "But I don't need to tell you that."

John cast a glance at Miss Holtzmann and Jane, who were talking together in hushed tones. "No indeed." He relaxed a little. A small measure of his sorrow drifted away.

For the next several minutes, they were all occupied with getting their things down to the street and loaded into their transportation, which was, as it turned out, a funeral hearse, painted white. It was drawn by an enormous black draft horse that, contrary to the personality of most of his type, appeared to be ready to bite anyone who came close to him. Only Miss Holtzmann approached him with any safety. For her, he lowered his head, allowing her to scratch his ears.

"All right," she said, when everyone had finally climbed aboard, and she had taken up the reins. She turned and shot John a mischievous look. "Ready to go catch your ghost?"

***

Catching ghosts, as it turned out, involved a lot of yelling and setting things up, before anything approaching actual investigation could go forward. John hovered in the downstairs hallway, uselessly, as he watched the Conductors go to work. Their equipment filled most of the parlour.

They'd already knocked over one vase and gouged out a thick swath of plaster from the wall in the entryway. He couldn't have cared less.

Instead, he felt a building sense of excitement. There was movement in his home again, instead of the stultifying nothingness he'd allowed to accumulate.  

He watched as Miss Holtzmann put on a vest shot through with a fine network of silver threads. "Keeps us protected," she said, as she strapped on her holster, and sorted through an array of very strange pistols, pausing only to attach them to her person.

"From what?"

She raised one of the weapons, and pulled the trigger. A bolt of pink lightning shot from the end of it, struck the chandelier, and sent it crashing in fragments to the floor.

She shrugged, mouth pulled to the side in a parody of an apology. "No idea what would happen if it hit a live human person who wasn't wearing one of these." She gestured to her own vest. "Would be interesting to find out."

John's laughter barked out of him, his whole body shaking with it. It doubled him over, and took his breath away, for much longer than it should. He gasped, hands on his knees, his face red.

Good God, it was amazing to laugh. Besides, he'd hated that chandelier since the day Mary picked it out for him.

When he could finally speak again, he gestured at the weapon. "What good will that do? This is Holmes's ghost, not some monster."

She smiled at him. "Never go in unarmed. But, if it is really just your friend we're dealing with, we'll hold back until you've had a chance to talk." She winked at him and moved out into the hallway, where Jane stood, hands folded, all closed-lipped smiles and anticipation.

"Sir," Jane said, as Miss Holtzmann moved toward the stairs, tugging on Jane's sleeve, "the other ladies are ready for you upstairs."

John paused to take a final look at the parlour, at the broken shards of glass on the floor, shimmering in the afternoon sunlight, at the scattered hatboxes full of odd mechanical devices, and jars of green glowing liquid. He checked the shutoff valve by the door, to ensure that there was no gas flowing to the dangling pipe that hung from the hole in the ceiling, where the chandelier used to be. Wouldn't do to blow up the whole house, just for the sake of an investigation.

For the first time in a long while, he felt the old passion for mystery that he used to feel, when he and Holmes were together. He sighed. Perhaps, in more ways than one, the man's spirit had already begun to have its old effect.

He climbed his way up the stairs, where the Conductors stood, waiting for him in the hallway.

The next few minutes were spent recounting exactly what Jane had heard in John's study, followed by a close examination of the grate. John showed them his bedchamber, and explained that he'd been asleep when Holmes's spirit made its visit.

"Hmm," Miss Holtzmann murmured, spending a long moment running a wand-like device over John's pillow.

Finally, they all trooped out into the hallway, where Jane showed Miss Yates and Miss Gilbert the exact spot that Holmes had shown himself.

After a few long minutes using a surprising variety of instruments to go over the area, Miss Yates finally stood up straight, and stretched her back. She regarded her companions with a furrowed brow. "Is it just me, or is this the least haunted haunted house we've ever seen?"

John cleared his throat. He'd been hovering in the doorway of his bedchamber, eager to see what the Conductors would do to summon Holmes's spirit. "What do you mean?"

She turned to him, a look of compassion in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Dr. Watson. John. Can I call you John?" She didn't wait for his reply. "Usually in cases like these, John, there would be some trace of a spectral presence, some ectoplasm, some residual measurable _something_. This—" she held up the device she was holding, a sort of box with a tiny ladder on the top of it— "is designed to react to such forces by moving." She took the small ladder in hand, and showed him that it was, indeed, capable of rotation.

"I assume you are looking for quite a subtle effect," he said. "Perhaps all that's required is to keep a closer watch on it."

"Sorry, John. It's usually obvious," Miss Tolan said. "Spins like a weather vane in a thunderstorm," she murmured.

Together, Miss Yates and John looked down at the instrument in her hand, which was utterly inert.

"And yet, Jane _saw_ him. I too, I—." John's voice dropped away as he stopped short of detailing how Holmes had sat on the edge of his bed, how John had felt Holmes's fingertips caress his face. "I tell you, I _know_ that he was here." he said, his voice growing hoarse in his throat, and frustration threatening to overtake him yet again.

He looked to each of the women in turn. They did not wish to inflict more harm on him, of that, he was sure, and yet, it seemed they only had bad news to deliver.

Holmes was gone, really and truly gone, and he had never shown himself to John as he had to Jane. John grasped at straws, unable to accept defeat so soon after the investigation had begun.

"Perhaps there is something wrong in your technique," he said.

Miss Gilbert made a prim noise. "Dr. Watson, we have made every effort, followed every procedure—"

"Erin," Miss Yates said.

Miss Gilbert sighed. Her tone switched to something more sympathetic as she continued. "I assure you that these instruments have been calibrated to be extremely sensitive. I'm afraid there's no evidence of a haunting here whatsoever."

John looked desperately to Jane for help. Jane stood at the back of the group, whispering to Miss Holtzmann as she placed her hand on Miss Holtzmann's pistol. She, of all people, who had seen Holmes for herself, would surely testify to the fact that his ghost was here, in the house. Why, John had heard him speak, only just this morning, in the parlour downstairs.

Just when it seemed they had reached a complete impasse, a knock sounded from downstairs, loud and insistent. The entire group jumped. John was about to proclaim his triumph— _there!_ —perhaps now they would believe him—but then it sounded again. It was clear that someone had come to the front door of the house.

The entire hallway was awkwardly crowded, and Jane stood closest to the top of the stairs. Despite his determination to find her a new position, John would have to prevail upon her to serve as maid, at least for the present moment.

"Jane, will you see who that is, please?" he asked.

"Sir?"

"The door, Jane. The door."

The knock sounded once more.

"Don't let them in, though," Miss Holtzmann muttered. "Chandelier's going to be a little hard to explain. And us, for that matter. "And—" she gestured at the pistol in her hand— "this."

"Very good," Jane giggled, as she turned and went down the stairs.

"All right." John addressed the Conductors once again. "If you can't find evidence of something that has clearly been here, then what do you suggest we do?"

Miss Tolan, who stood in his study doorway, spoke up. "Abby, Erin, I'm wondering if we're going about this the wrong way. I mean, something is definitely going on in this house. We have two witnesses who say so. If you're not picking anything up with your instruments, then is it possible that we're dealing with something new? Something we haven't figured out how to detect yet?"

Miss Gilbert and Miss Yates exchanged looks.

"I suppose so," Miss Gilbert said, nodding. "This is the first time we've had the chance to study a locally discontinuous apparition."

"All right," Miss Yates agreed. "What do we do?"

Miss Tolan grinned. "Well, when I first became aware of the mummy problem, it was because one climbed out of a tomb and tried to strangle me."

John stared at Miss Tolan, remembering half a dozen times he'd been scared out of his wits on a case with Holmes. He admired her thoroughly for her bravery. Hope began to creep into his heart once more. "Your point?"

"My point is, if the instruments aren't working, we should use our eyes and ears."

Miss Yates shrugged. "All right."

"Agreed," Miss Gilbert said.

"Jane heard noises coming from the attic, and that is where I saw the footprints," John said. "So I suppose we should check up there?"

"Let's go." Miss Holtzmann raised another of her weapons, a short, stubby pistol, and flicked a switch on the end of it. It produced a disconcerting high-pitched whine. "Can't be too careful," she said, and winked at John.

He stepped aside to allow her to go up the attic stairs before him.

As the ladies climbed, John strained to listen for some sound from downstairs. He presumed that, whoever had come to the door, Jane had dealt with it. He wondered briefly if he should go down and see if she needed help, but he was far too interested in the idea of joining the Conductors in their search of the attic, and, he reminded himself, Jane was fully capable of getting rid of unwanted guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters to go after this one! (And an epilogue, which I hope will be just purely amusing.)
> 
> Wherever you are, and whatever your situation or current level of worry over recent events, I hope this story will bring you some measure of enjoyment. I promise the ending will be very happy. xoxo


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stunning revelation.

By the time John finished climbing the last of the steps, the ladies had already performed an initial search of the attic, and were standing on the far end, near the storage area, with shocked looks on their faces.

"Anything?" He stepped briskly toward them.

"Yes! Something moved behind there." Miss Yates whispered, gesturing at the low wall.

"Your instruments are working, then?" John was suddenly intrigued by the Conductors' investigation techniques, now that they seemed to be producing results. Perhaps the ghostly residue was contained, for some reason, to the attic.

Miss Yates held up the device in her hand. It was completely still. "Nothing. But we just heard a shuffling sound, and it seemed to me there was a groan?"

"Would you call it a groan?" Miss Gilbert asked. "I would say it was more like a sigh."

"Could we call it a moan?" Miss Yates wrinkled her nose.

"It definitely had a tone to it," Miss Holtzmann said. A high-pitched whine issued from the large pistol in her hand as she lifted it. It was the very same one, John was almost sure, that she'd used to destroy his chandelier.

Miss Tolan placed her hand on Miss Holtzmann's raised arm, pushing the pistol down, so it pointed at the floor. "Whatever's back there," she said, "we have no evidence that it's hostile."

A scraping sound came from behind the wall.

Miss Gilbert waved her hand at John, indicating that he should come forward. "Oh, this is new, this is new! Step closer, Dr. Watson!"

"What can I do?" John's heart was beating like a rabbit's.

"Since we're sure that you're the cause of the emotional entanglement, it's more likely we'll get a significant reaction if you're standing as close as possible to the event area."

He nodded, and stepped forward. "Here, then?"

The air in the attic was quite cool, but a trickle of sweat ran down his temple. He was practically vibrating with anticipation.  

"Yes, yes, that's it!" Miss Gilbert told him, pushing him even closer to the wall. John could almost see over it. "We're not picking up anything at all, no spectral energy, no ectoplasmic emissions. But we all heard movement. This is definitely a new type of haunting! Why don't you see what happens if you try to speak? Maybe vocal stimulation will evoke a stronger response."

John took a deep breath, and cast a look at the room around him. Nearer the window, on the opposite end of the attic, all was mellow with the warm light of the afternoon sun. Here, in the dark, the subtle shifting light emanating from the end of Miss Holtzmann's pistol made strange shadows dance. John watched the storage area for any sign of movement. There was none.

"What should I say?" His voice was shaking.

Miss Tolan spoke from behind him. "Whatever you think you should, John. Whatever you think he might want to hear. Ladies, let's give him room." Behind him, the Conductors all took a step back.

John cleared his throat. It was difficult, all this, but no more difficult for the presence of the Conductors. He found that he trusted them implicitly. They'd gotten him this far.

"Holmes," he finally said, his voice a ragged whisper. "Holmes, are you there?"

There was no sound at all, except the low hiss and crackle from Miss Holtzmann's gun.

"Holmes," John said, beginning again, now that it seemed he must say more. "Holmes, if you are there, if you can hear me, please, man—"

He paused, listening once more for any sign that Holmes was there, any hint that he had heard John speak.

Again, there was nothing.

"Try again," Miss Holtzmann said.

"All right." There was no help for it, then. There were, in his heart, all those things he'd never had the opportunity to say, or, rather, the courage, while Holmes was alive. He would say them now.

"Holmes," he said. "You were the best and wisest man I have ever known."

Behind him, one of the ladies gasped. John sniffed, knowing he must continue. He closed his eyes, willing himself to concentrate. Whatever would happen, whatever might manifest itself, he could not go another moment without giving voice to these feelings.

"I am, and always will be, your friend, Holmes. And yet, I must tell you that I have long known that I was, or should be, more than that."

All was hushed in the attic, save for the sound of someone's shoe scuffing against the floor. Behind him, John thought he heard a creaking on the attic stairs. Perhaps whatever spell he was performing with his words was working, and he would turn, and find Holmes's spirit standing there behind him. Perhaps it was only Jane returning from downstairs. Whatever the case, he could not afford to stop now.

A sound like he was being strangled issued from his throat, but he carried on forward. "Holmes, I must tell you that I love you, and have always loved you, since nearly the first moment we met. And I know, that although you are gone, and although we missed our chance, there is nothing I would not give to have you here again. If you can, my dearest one, if it is at all possible—" he choked on his own words, and paused to steady himself before he continued. "If you can let me know that you understand me, please, Holmes. Know that I am yours, and always will be, most passionately and completely."

Behind him, Miss Gilbert whispered an oath involving God, and the infant Jesus.

Perhaps John had gone too far. His left hand cramped painfully. He squeezed his eyes shut, as he heard the squeak of hinges behind the wall in front of him.

"John." The voice was eerily low, but unmistakable.

John thrilled to the sound of his Christian name.

"Holmes!" The name slipped from his mouth before he had the chance to consider. No. It could no longer be Holmes. He must not disappoint. He must reciprocate. "Sherlock." Saying the name aloud felt like everything to John: a promise and a declaration, a wild hope and a deep mourning. "Sherlock, is that you?"

"Yes," Miss Holtzmann whispered.

Slowly, John opened his eyes. He could not see Sherlock, but a small sound, like the rustling of fabric, emerged from behind the wall.

"My dear boy," the voice said, its rich baritone seeming to recover more and more, the closer John stepped. "Come here. Draw near to me."

"This is unprecedented," Miss Gilbert said, her voice pitched high with excitement. "We've never experienced an apparition that we couldn't detect." She shook the instrument in her hand. "What is it? Some kind of ectoplasmic manifestation of a higher order? A spirit without electrical influence? Is that even possible? How are we hearing it speak? Is it speaking directly into our minds?"

"Sherlock." John stepped closer still. Now that the floodgates had opened, there was no going back. "There's so much I could wish for, so much we should have done. Please, man, if you can show yourself, if you ever loved me—"

A loud bang erupted from behind the wall, and a man, dressed in clothes that John would have sworn belonged to Sherlock himself, popped up like a doll in a Punch and Judy show.

A man who looked exactly like Sherlock, with his hair brushed back from his forehead, and his prominent cheekbones, his arms spread wide.

"It's me!" he shouted, grinning as if he'd never been more pleased with himself.

John made a most indecorous sound and stumbled backward, the heel of his boot catching on the edge of a floorboard. He barely kept himself from falling, as Miss Yates stepped forward and waved her instrument at Sherlock.

John bent over double, hands on his knees, gasping for breath, his mind straining to understand what he saw.  

"It's so real," Miss Gilbert said.

"It is," Sherlock replied.

"It _is_ ," Miss Tolan affirmed. "Really real. Oh my God! You were dead! Weren't you? No. No?"

"Not quite." Sherlock knocked his knuckles against the half wall, making a sharp rapping sound. "Alive as can be." He stepped out from behind the wall, his posture tall and haughty as it always was, in life, before. "I'm real, John." His voice lowered as he looked at John expectantly. "I'm here now. Here again."

Miss Yates let her instrument drop to the floor. Miss Tolan gave a low whistle. Miss Gilbert took a step forward and began to ask a question about returning from beyond the grave.

Miss Holtzmann said, "This is going to be awkward. I like it."

John felt a huge variety of emotion run through him. For two years, he'd believed Sherlock Holmes to be dead. In many ways, this moment, this exact moment, with the man standing before him, real and alive and warm and breathing, was all he'd ever wanted.

"You've got questions," Sherlock was saying. "No doubt. Of course you do. And we really must talk about that fiancée of yours. Bit of a problem there. Most unfortunate."

"What?" John was afraid, sincerely so, that he would never be able to manage more than a single syllable at a time, ever again, for as long as he lived.

"Honestly, John, one would think you wouldn't be quite so desperate as to troll the criminal classes for a companion. Then again, you did spend an awful lot of time with me, in the old days. Clearly your tastes run to the unsavoury."

John _was_ breathing. He was certain of it, although he couldn't feel it. He was also transforming into a thin parody of himself, anger and love and the fear that he had gone insane, that this was a hallucination, jangling inside him, changing him into a ball of emotion so intense, he was quite certain he would leave his body any moment, and become a ghost himself.

The ladies had gone completely silent as they watched the scene play out.

Although John could not feel his feet, he somehow stepped forward until he was inches away from Sherlock. He hesitated to reach out a hand, however. He could not bear it if this were all some illusion, or a trick, or a spirit, not when he was feeling the heat in his blood so powerfully. At the same time, if it were really Sherlock, and the mourning of the last two years, John's pain and sadness, the emptiness he'd carried inside him, had all been for naught, well, he wasn't sure he could contain his feelings on that topic, either.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, and sighed in a breathless manner that reminded John of a besotted girl, and said, "Oh," as he gazed at John.

 _Oh._ Was it an apology? Acknowledgement? Sympathy? Sorrow? Understanding? Promise? The only sound in the attic was the sound of John's breath wheezing in and out of his nostrils.  

Sherlock closed the remaining inches between them.

"John," Sherlock said, and his breath brushed across John's cheek. John closed his eyes, his breath ragged, seeing stars. It was real. _Sherlock_ was real. As real as John was.

"Oh my God," someone whispered behind them, as John reached for the lapels of Sherlock's coat.

He could not look at Sherlock's face. It was too much. "Sherlock, you were gone. I lost you."

The man was trembling, John realised, just as affected as he was. It was as tender a reunion as he could have hoped for.  

And if Sherlock had said nothing at all, it could have been fine. Wonderful. Touching, even.

John even thought he heard some murmurs of approval from the Conductors, and Miss Gilbert whispering something about leaving the two of them alone.

But Sherlock must speak. Of course he must.

"If I'd known you would be so passionate, John, I'd never have left."

It was a joke. Of course it was, but a joke that turned all of John's longing, his grief and loss, into a piece of frippery, into a thing he could not bear, despite Sherlock's hands, which had wound around John's waist, despite the dizzying sweetness of the scent of the man—wood smoke, tobacco, and something else—or maybe _because_ of those things. Enough. Too much.

Before he knew it, John had borne Sherlock down to the floor, the two of them crashing down and sending up clouds of dust from the wide unfinished boards, as John's hands sought Sherlock's throat. John was, somehow, astride Sherlock, his knees planted on either side of Sherlock's hips, leaning over him, pressed chest to chest, while Sherlock's fingers sought to pry John's hands away, and the man writhed beneath him in a manner that wasn't quite what John would have expected, given that they were in a fight. Oddly, Sherlock's thumb caressed the back of John's hand, and the man groaned his name.

"Damn you, Sherlock," John said through gritted teeth, as he loosened his hold on Sherlock's throat, and yet, did not take his hands away, nor did he shift from his place on top of him.

The two of them gazed into each others' eyes. Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You're angry with me, then," he said.

"Angry? Damn right I'm—" John's speech died in his throat as he gazed down at Sherlock's face. The man was here, the face he'd longed to see again inches away, the jaw firm under his fingers, Sherlock's lips, bitten red by his teeth.

Now that he was catching up to the moment, John thought back to all the times in the last few days that he'd felt Sherlock's presence. A surge of emotion ran through him, pulled out of him through Sherlock's fingertips, which still stroked the back of his hand.

"You were here."

"Yes."

"In my parlour this morning."

"Yes."

"And on the street! On the street this morning, that was you."

"Someone had to keep an eye on you."

Sherlock's gaze met his, inches away, as John thought of the things Sherlock had said, this morning, and the other night, the way he'd caressed John's face while he slumbered. He'd thought it was a dream, but it had been real. It had all been real. "In my room. You were—"

"Yes."

"Dr. Watson." Miss Gilbert called to him from across the attic.

"Yes, what?" John barked. He could not look, could not take his eyes away from Sherlock's eyes, which gazed back at John, and did not waver, but drifted languorously down to John's lips.

The Conductors could excuse themselves any moment, or hang themselves, or stick around and watch, for all he cared. Sherlock Holmes was back, and they'd already come through, apparently, everything they needed to say, everything they needed to know. He had only required a moment to realise it.

"John," Miss Yates said. "John!"

Sherlock turned to look in the direction of the speaker, and his eyes went wide. John followed his gaze.

There, in the centre of the attic, stood Mary, of all people, dressed in boys' clothes, all black, with a black cap covering her pale hair. She did not, as John might have expected, appear to be the least bit scandalised by seeing him in the embrace of the man beneath him. She was, rather, fully occupied by the knife that she held to Jane's throat, and the arm she had thrown around Jane's chest to restrain her.

"Mary! My God, what is this all about?" John blustered as best he could, from his position astride Sherlock.

The Conductors had all stepped out of the way, into the shadows at the edges of the attic. They watched the scene unfolding in front of them with shocked expressions.

"I told you, fascinating choice of fiancée," Sherlock murmured.

John clapped a hand over Sherlock's mouth.

"I didn't know she was like that!" he hissed. "Why is she like that?"

Sherlock shrugged, and cocked an eyebrow, the best he could do with John's hand over his mouth.

"Now Mary," John said, as calm as he could manage, given that he was, and there was no other way to put it, riding his best friend and former flatmate, "can you please tell me what you are doing?"

" _He_ knows," Mary said. "Don't you, Sherlock?"

Under John's palm, Sherlock's mouth began to move. The sensation of lips over John's skin was enough to send shivers of warm pleasure down his spine. He lifted his hand, certain that, were he to hold it in place, there would be more than one uncomfortable revelation in this attic on this fine afternoon.

"She's part of Moriarty's network, John, arrived in London a few months ago. Set up to contact you, and get close to you, and prevent me from reaching you, should I try to get in touch, which I'd planned to do upon my arrival on Sunday."

"Sunday?" John looked to Jane, who was watching the two of them with alarm.

"That's right. Sunday. The same day I took up residence in your attic. And on that day, the woman you know as Mary Morstan came calling, and twice after that." He turned to address Mary. "Would have been convenient for you, had I simply allowed you to kill me, wouldn't it?"

"Very." Mary pressed the knife a little harder to Jane's throat. Jane let out a small moan. Mary had tied Jane's arms behind her, and it appeared they were pulled back at a painful angle. "Now, unless you want this useless maid of yours to die, John, I suggest you allow Sherlock to come along with me. I have business to finish, and I don't want to be forced to kill him in front of you. I know you were rather bothered the first time he died. Least I could do, considering our sham engagement and all."

John attempted to reconcile the Mary standing before him now with the woman he'd planned to marry, and found that in fact, once he thought about it for a moment, it was not difficult at all. Still, he must try to reason with her. "Please, Mary! Let Jane go. Surely whatever is causing you to behave in this manner, we can discuss it." He realised, of course, that any hope he had of appealing to Mary's rationality, and, even, whatever affection she had for him, sham or otherwise, was probably compromised by the fact that he was currently sitting atop the man she apparently wished to assassinate.

Just then, there was the sound of more people crashing up the attic stairs. Lestrade appeared at the far end of the attic, followed by a man John did not recognise.

"Ah. The American agent I've been expecting," Sherlock said.

"You bastard," Mary growled. "You'll never take me down. None of you are foolish enough to try to use a pistol in this small space, not with so many people here who could get hurt. So let me go, and maybe I won't cut this girl's throat as I make my escape."

Lestrade and the new man backed away from the top of the stairs. Jane, true to her brave nature, only had eyes for Miss Holtzmann. John thought he caught the slightest nod from Jane, as Miss Holtzmann nudged Miss Tolan aside, clearing Miss Holtzmann's view of the scene playing out before them.

"Very good," Mary said. "And understand this, Sherlock Holmes. You've made some powerful enemies. So mark my words—"

A terrific sound, like thunder, rang out across the attic, and a bolt of pink plasma struck Mary, causing her entire body to go rigid, then collapse to the floor. Traces of lurid electric shocks chased their way over her entire form, zipping here and there like small snakes, as she shook her way through a fit.

Miss Holtzmann shrugged as she holstered her pistol. "She'll be all right," she said. "Maybe. In a while. I think."

The entire crew in the attic stared at her, with the exception of Jane, who, having picked herself up from the floor, rushed over to her saviour.

Miss Holtzmann made short work of Jane's bonds, and the two women embraced. Miss Holtzmann pressed such a loving kiss to Jane's forehead, then cheek, then her lips, and finally the side of her neck, that John began to feel all too aware of the warm body beneath him, and the layer upon layer of clothes which separated them. A plan formed in his mind even now, to get his hands on Sherlock's skin as soon as the situation permitted, if the man himself were willing.

He realised at this point that remaining in his current position atop Sherlock was no longer justifiable, and he made to shift, but Sherlock's hands locked around his legs, his thumbs pressing into the flesh of John's inner thighs in a manner that left him far too weak to move.

He looked down at Sherlock, and the man raised an eyebrow. "Surely we can be rid of this rabble, John, without the inconvenience of getting up."

"Lestrade," Sherlock called out. "Now that you've caught your criminal, Mr. Hammond will, no doubt, be wanting to facilitate her return to America. So if you don't mind, Dr. Watson and I have some catching up to do."

There was the sound of gentle laughter coming from among the Conductors, and then a murmured question from the man John could only assume was Hammond.

Lestrade muttered, "No, I'm not going anywhere near that. Let them do what they will. Long past time, if you ask me."

There was a groan from Mary, as Hammond and Lestrade picked her up and dragged her down the stairs. Then the ladies were bundling themselves out of the attic.

"Still haven't seen a locally discontinuous apparition," Miss Gilbert muttered.

"Worth the sacrifice, I think," Miss Yates said.

"I'd call it a job well done." Miss Tolan blew a kiss at John as she turned and made her way down the stairs.

Miss Holtzmann tugged on Jane's hand.

"Goodnight, Sir," came Jane's voice, full of her customary amusement. Moments later, they heard the door at the bottom of the attic steps clicking shut.

John and Sherlock were alone, then, just the two of them, not quite illuminated by the soft afternoon sun coming in through the window at the far end of the attic.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone, in the empty attic.

Alone, in the empty attic, no sound from the outside world penetrating this sanctum, this shrine to dust and neglect and things John knew he could never leave behind. And now, and now, he would not have to.

Sherlock's hands moved up to touch the side of John's face, to stroke his hair.

"Dear John. How I've missed you." There was no trace of his usual bombastic tone. He spoke in a husky murmur, not quite a whisper. The sound of it tore through John's blood, made him wish to lean closer, to press his ear to those lips, and feel, rather than hear, the words. 

John's entire body trembled, not with cold, but with the sheer force of his emotion. "You could have told me you were alive," he managed to say.

Sherlock nodded. "If I'd known it would cause you such pain, my dear boy, I would have tried. It was difficult. Moriarty—"

"Stop."

John was swiftly becoming far too distracted by the warm solidity of the body beneath his, by the ache in the pit of his belly, by the desire that stirred within him, to know if the caress in Sherlock's voice, the touch of his hands, meant what John very much hoped it did. There would be time, later, to discuss what _had_ happened. Now that he was getting over the shock of Sherlock's return, he was really only interested in what _might_ happen.

He lowered his lips to Sherlock's, and took the kiss he'd always wanted.

It was chaste, at first. Closed lips pressed to lips, a tentative experiment. Sherlock held very still, perhaps unwilling to break the moment. John only prayed that the man wasn't unwilling to receive what John offered: himself, his very being, everything he had, and everything he was.

Although he'd kissed others before, John had never felt so close to losing control of himself. He fought the urge to press his advantage, to moan and sigh and grind down into Sherlock.

Sherlock shifted beneath him, his fingers stroking John's cheek, his ear, as he allowed John to enclose his lower lip with the lightest scrape of teeth. It was almost too much. To kiss Sherlock, to feel him firm and alive and warm, no, hot, his breath catching, his hands shifting down to hold John's waist, then gliding lower, over the small of his back—it was all John had ever wanted, and yet, he wanted more, and more. He continued to taste Sherlock's kiss, to brush the corner of his mouth, now with lips, now with the tip of his tongue, to worship the dear cheek, his long neck, to kiss lower, to bury his face against Sherlock's collar, and wish it could be opened.

"John," Sherlock murmured, his fingers tangling in John's hair. "John, I have need of you. I've always—"

"Yes, anything. I'm here, I'll always be here. It's just the two of us. It always has been."

John worried that he was murmuring sentimental nonsense, of the kind Sherlock had always disparaged, but he warmed to the very ideas he gave voice to now, practicality be damned. For his part, Sherlock made no remark, and gave no protest, but offered his mouth to be kissed again and again.

It had been a day of half solved mysteries and unanswered questions. How Sherlock had survived, where he had been, what he had done. John determined that he would leave all of that until later, until after (long after) he'd sorted the much more pressing mystery that writhed beneath him, and breathed a sigh against his cheek.

"Please, John."

John sat up, the change in angle causing his prick to drag over Sherlock's. He gazed down at his friend, his beloved, with as full a heart as he'd ever had, and peeled off his jacket, vest, and shirt as quickly as he'd ever done. By the time John was finished, wearing only his undershirt and trousers, Sherlock was panting and blushing as furiously as a love struck girl. He was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen, his hair mussed, showing just a hint of the curls that he daily tamed with pomade. John longed to see him fully debauched, his lips stained red from fierce kisses, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

He hated to shift away from Sherlock completely, but he did, kneeling beside him, his knees aching, his whole body throbbing, as he pulled Sherlock up into a sitting position.

The man looked utterly abandoned, clutching John's biceps and watching his mouth hungrily. John couldn't remember a time that he'd seen Sherlock Holmes so desperate, not even when he'd suffered the pangs of withdrawal. John smiled at him, and kissed his temple, the scent of him, the warm salt of him, on John's lips.

John's breath sounded loud to his own ears, in the empty attic, as he pushed Sherlock's jacket off his shoulders, as he unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and peeled all away to reveal the firm musculature of Sherlock's chest and shoulders. He was thinner than John remembered, and his shoulders bore the scars of a bad fight—or a bad fall?—but he was here, alive, and as John had always wanted him to be.

Sherlock exhaled raggedly. The man was shaking, clutching at John as if drowning. John leaned in and kissed him, that touch of lips as thrilling as it had been the first time, the ecstasy of the moment only deepening as Sherlock grasped the back of John's neck and crushed their mouths together, his tongue sliding past John's lips to tease John's open mouth, after the French manner. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their mingled breath, their wet kisses, as they dared each other to deeper acts of love. By the time they pulled apart, John too was shaking, his breath ragged, his body full of need.

Swiftly he sought to unbutton Sherlock's trousers, panting as though running a race. Sherlock's hands reached for John, and began doing the same. They were close together, arms tangling as they sought to undress each other as quickly as possible. Sherlock succeeded first—fingers as clever as his brilliant mind. A gout of praise spilled from John's lips as he completed unbuttoning Sherlock, as Sherlock pushed John's trousers and pants halfway down his thighs, and freed his aching, straining cock at last.

"Brilliant, gorgeous, clever man, genius, my sweet darling, wonderful love."

Sherlock blushed much more furiously as John managed to push his trousers down just a little lower, and caress Sherlock's cock with his palm. It was hard and firm, feeling better in John's hand than he'd ever imagined it could. Better yet were the gasps of pleasure issuing from Sherlock's lips, although they did not last for long, since Sherlock pulled away, to strip off the remains of his clothes, pausing only to undo the garters that held up his socks, before peeling them away as well.  

Then silence reigned, the two of them staring at each other, John kneeling in his state of partial undress, and Sherlock sprawled on his side, supported by his elbow. John felt nothing but total awe at the sight of his beloved, full and naked and seemingly shy and eager all at once. Sherlock ran his eyes down John's body, staring at his prick and licking the corner of his own lips sinfully.

The attic filled then, with the sound of John's gasp, as Sherlock bent to place his lips on the tip of John's cock, pausing only a moment before taking him in more fully, as John rose up off his heels, and cradled Sherlock's head in his hands.

John was as thick and hard as he could be, his whole body longing for Sherlock in any way he could have him, but never had he imagined Sherlock would be so open, so full of guile and skill, his lips so clever, his tongue playing foreign music on John's flesh, sending sharp pleasure singing through his veins.

Sherlock's mouth was so sweet, John wanted to fall into it forever. He feared, however, that all this would very soon be over, and he could not stand to humble himself so soon.

"Stop," he managed, although it was the last thing he wanted.

"Stop?" The very baritone of Sherlock's voice was a seduction, threatening to send John over the edge much more quickly than he would like.

"You," John managed, gesturing in the general direction of Sherlock's glorious nudity, then back at his own undone trousers, now bunched around his knees. "You're ahead of me." John found himself grinning as he raised Sherlock up onto his knees, the two of them pressing chest to chest as John held up his arms, indicating his undershirt with a gesture of his fingertips. "We're going to need to coordinate."

Sherlock murmured against John's lips. "So you've said before, but never like this."

The two of them moved like tigers then, wordless and wild, in a dance that they'd rehearsed a thousand times, but never managed to perform before. Sherlock stripped John's shirt off over his head, then knocked John onto his back, removed his shoes, tore away his socks, and finally did away with this trousers, peeling them off over his feet, then tossing them into the far corner of the attic.

Sherlock watched his handiwork, eyes lingering on every detail of John's body, as he moved away, each inch of distance between himself and John a demand. Sherlock reclined on his back, his cock dark and leaking, an invitation. John took up his former place, and straddled Sherlock, easing himself down so that their pricks aligned, pressed groin to groin, chest to chest, the naked skin of their bodies sliding, to John's relief, nothing between them now, not so much as air. They strove, not against each other, but together now, toward their common goal.

John spat into his hand and lowered it between them, taking them both in a firm grip. He squeezed a little, watching as Sherlock's hand joined his. He shuddered, closing his eyes for a moment against the view of Sherlock beneath him, bright and beginning to moan. John's voice took up counterpoint as he rode Sherlock, thrusting into their tangled fingers, seeking his climax now, seeking to claim Sherlock as his own, completely his own.

Surprising in this, as in all things, however, Sherlock got his feet under him and rolled, managing to push John onto his back, his hands moving to John's shoulders, to hold him down. John watched as Sherlock moved downward still, his smile coquettish, his gaze intent, grinning as he hovered over John's cock.

"Like this," he said, not waiting for approval at all, or rather, knowing, as he must, that he surely had it, as he bent to take John's cock in his mouth again, slowly, teasing with breath and kisses and the soft swipe of his tongue. In an instant John went from feeling that his climax was upon him, to moaning in absolute frustration and ecstasy, feeling that it was all too much and not enough at once. He groaned Sherlock's name, barely managing the two syllables, as the world came to a halt, concentrated down to the place where Sherlock's tongue moved in slow, aching circles, and his mouth sucked.

John couldn't help himself any longer, he did not care if it were indecorous—he had to see, had to look down at Sherlock, as he bent to his task. Reward John had for his daring, more than he could have anticipated, at the sight of that warm red mouth, those sensual lips, almost too full, wrapped around his cock as Sherlock rode him into abandon. It was more than enough to cause him to go completely mad, or so he thought, until Sherlock looked up from under heavy eyelids, until, their eyes met.

It was only then that John understood the full import of this moment, their mutual agreement to love and share all. With the sweet buzzing that built in him, it was too much. It was everything. He tipped into the excess of his climax, his head hitting the floorboards beneath him as his back arched, and he thrust into Sherlock's warm mouth, his release spilling out from Sherlock's lips, back down abundantly, over John's cock and belly.

It was only when he was done gasping that he managed to pull himself up onto his elbows once more, to see Sherlock there, grinning beside him, sitting on his heels, his lips slick with John's release.

"I've always wanted to do that, John."

"Always?"

"Always."

John raised his eyebrows. He would have loved to ask. So many questions burned in his mind.

— _that time, by the fire, you touched my hand and you called me_ my darling _, did you mean it then? and the other time, when you caught me staring at you, and you said you were going to take a bath, was that an invitation too?_

—but he had more pressing matters to attend to. He would remember that _always_ for later, when they were back downstairs, in John's bed, with the door locked and a note on it telling Jane to leave them alone. Not that it would be necessary. She'd never once woken John up, not even when he'd asked her to.

His eyes drifted down to Sherlock's cock, still hard and flushed, and he reached out and pulled Sherlock by the arm, directing him down beside him, the two of them lying on the floor.

John smiled, and brushed Sherlock's cheek with his fingertips, barely touching him, but Sherlock sighed and shook nonetheless. John wished to draw things out for Sherlock, as much as the man had done for him, but he did not dare to tease. He kissed Sherlock, his tongue tasting the salt of his release on Sherlock's lips, as his hand drifted downward to hold Sherlock's cock once more, setting Sherlock to panting as he rolled onto his back, allowing John's touch to set the pace.

It was languorous at first, easy and light, as John propped himself on his elbow and watched the effect he was having on this, the greatest man of his acquaintance, his dearest friend. Sherlock sighed, eyes closed, lost to everything John did, and it was proof, more than John had ever imagined, that he could influence Sherlock, that John mattered, as much as Sherlock had always mattered to him.

John eased himself lower, wanting to return the favour Sherlock had bestowed. He paused, as he went, slowing the movement of his hand in favour of placing a kiss on Sherlock's jaw, a light scrape of teeth over the sharply defined collarbone—a thing that made Sherlock hiss. He moved lower still, abandoning Sherlock's hard, full prick in favour of rubbing circles around his hip bones with both of his thumbs, circling the dip of Sherlock's navel with his tongue, and coming finally, to the hard, hot cock, which throbbed and leaked and twitched as he placed his hand on it once more.

It was the very embodiment of all the physical and soul-level torments John had suffered himself, while he and Sherlock were together, and in the time that Sherlock was gone. To see his own need reciprocated in such a clear manner was humbling, to say the least.

On the threshold of total bliss, John hesitated. Although he had imagined, many times, this precise act, had cried himself to orgasm imagining it, had even tasted his own fluids so as to better imagine the taste of Sherlock's, he had never done anything like it before, and he was uncertain he could afford Sherlock that same pleasure he had so skilfully given John.

But Sherlock made a husky noise in the back of his throat, as John squeezed his cock, and placed his fingers in John's hair, so gently, and John knew he must carry on forward, as if his life depended upon it.

He no sooner had his mouth on the velvet tip of Sherlock's cock, as the man was moaning aloud, his fingers jumping on John's scalp, and moving down to his shoulders, where he gripped John's flesh delightfully.

John could not be cruel. He took Sherlock in hand, more firmly than he'd done before, and sucked the tip, sliding his mouth down, the salt fullness of Sherlock the sweetest thing he had ever tasted, this act the most necessary thing he'd ever done.

There could be no doubt that he was giving Sherlock everything he could have wished to, as each stroke and lick of Sherlock's cock caused a gasp, a moan, more beautiful than any John had ever heard. Finally, when the man had been rendered capable of no more than breathy sighs, John softened his tongue and took Sherlock in entire, swallowing around Sherlock's cock as the man broke open, John's name on his lips. All the _oh_ s and oaths John had ever uttered in Sherlock's name were returned to him then, along with the fresh hot fountains of come bursting into John's mouth, as John strove to accommodate it all, swallowing hard as Sherlock moaned and spurted anew.

And then it was done, the two of them spent on the attic floor of the house John had never wished to occupy, and John was in Sherlock's arms, their limbs tangled, their bodies pressed together, the sweat of their skin cooling in the air.

"Always?" John asked, when a few moments had passed.

"Always," Sherlock said, all duplicity gone, the prank of his return forgiven and long past.

"You never said."

"You never asked."

"Very well."

After a few moments, they rose, and gathered their clothes, by mutual agreement determining to head downstairs.

"You'll stay," John said. It was not a question. He would fight, if necessary. He would argue, cajole, do anything.

"You would be hard pressed to make me leave now."

"Good."

They passed, as they came into the hallway, Jane's room. The door was closed, and silence issued from within, but it was a breathless sort of nothing, as if those who were within merely waited for them to pass by, so they could resume their talk once more. Sure enough, as John tiptoed into his own room, ushering a mostly-nude Sherlock through the door and onto the bed, it seemed the sound of John's own door shutting broke whatever spell had kept the silence, and a chorus of feminine giggles erupted from down the hall.

John was not inclined in the least to speak to Jane about her conduct. Jane could marry Miss Holtzmann, for all John cared, and keep this damned house. Tear it open, wall to wall, in the name of science, if they wished. He and Sherlock would find some other place, some new place, perhaps, together.

When they were gathered under the heavy wool blankets on John's bed, John's fingers intertwined with Sherlock's, their bodies pressed together, gazing into each others' eyes, legs delightfully tangled, John looked back on the events of the day, and chuckled.

"An international assassin. I was going to marry her! Sherlock, I might have—" It was too much to bear, the idea of being legally bound to a criminal, and one who, upon reflection, John hadn't liked very much at all.

Sherlock looked at John under heavy lidded eyes, his hand tracing the line of John's arm.

"It was torment, John, not being able to speak to you. Seeing you had made this life for yourself, and that you were by no means safe. Hiding in the attic mere feet above you, knowing you were here all the time. It was all I could do not to come to you, especially each night."

"And you did, after a manner of speaking. It was you all along, the noises, the sounds in the hallway, you, at my bedside."

"I decided, after an unfortunate incident where I nearly fell off the roof, that I should come and go through the house. And yes, it was I who woke you when you had been drugged, and I was certain Miss Morstan would come after me. There was always the danger that I would be discovered too soon. And I was, really. Once Jane was aware of me—clever girl, that maid of yours—I had no choice but to behave like a phantom."

John slid his arms around Sherlock, holding him tightly, and pressing a kiss to his temple.

Sherlock continued to speak. "You understand, don't you, why I couldn't reveal myself right away? Mary Morstan was the last piece of the puzzle, of Moriarty's network. When I found that you had taken up with her, I realised I must conceal myself a little while longer, while I went about ensuring she was brought to justice."

John felt a mixture of emotions warring within him for the second time that night: frustration, disappointment, gratitude. "You could have said. If you'd just let me know—"

"You were always a terrible liar John. Too honest a man by far. I hardly deserve you, many would say. If I'd told you, Miss Morstan might have caught on, and gone on the run, and then I would have had to leave again to go after her. Or worse yet, she might have come after you. I could not live with myself if anything were to happen to you, not after all this time away, when my reason for leaving in the first place was your protection."

John sat up, the distance allowing him to regard Sherlock's expression, which was soft, and full of affection. "What do you mean, man? For my protection?"

He'd been so sunk in despair, all this time, so lost to it, he had hardly felt less protected in his life. The change in perspective was utterly dizzying.

"The only thing that could ever have induced me to leave you, John, was a threat upon your life. Can you think otherwise? Moriarty told me I must jump, or he would have you killed. There was an assassin, one of his men, at our hotel, just waiting to see me return from the falls. It would have meant your death."

John heaved a sigh, gratitude and the old sadness warring for dominance. He settled himself by falling back on his oldest habit: changing the subject. "How did you do it? How did you disappear so thoroughly? I saw no trace of you on the path, no evidence that you had not gone over the falls."

Sherlock cleared his throat. His eyes were so earnest, his expression so thoughtful, John held his breath, waiting for the genius of the man to dazzle him once again, just as it had in the old days.

Quietly, Sherlock said, "I did go over the falls."

John reached out and took Sherlock's hands, and held them to his own chest. This was living flesh, was indisputably his friend, his beloved, and yet. No trickery in the world could have helped him survive that drop, unless it were some miracle.

"You did?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, as if ready to launch one of his famous explanatory speeches, but he merely blew his breath out again, and shrugged.

John sat up further, bolstering his back with the pillows. "What are you saying, man?"

"John, how often have I said that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?"

"Many times." John found his own tone matching Sherlock's, hushed, as if they were uttering sacred truths.

"John, there are things in this world that defy explanation. I've seen things in the last—how long has it been?"

"How long has what been?"

"Since I've been away, man. Since my—departure."

"Two years." John cleared his throat. It had been such a trial, those long years. He clutched Sherlock's hands more tightly in his own, and watched the man's face as he prepared his next words, a line of concentration forming between his brows.

"Two years, you say. And yet, for me, it has seemed like much less, and much more. I did go over those falls, with Moriarty. We fell together, and together I knew we must die. And yet, we did not, and I found myself at the top of those falls again. And then back at Baker Street with you, and then again, at Baker Street, without you. And then you were married—"

"Married!"

"To the woman you knew as Mary Morstan. And then I fell once more, and found myself in the future."

"What?"

"I know, John. I know it will sound impossible, but so it was. And again I fell, but this time from a rooftop. And you were there, in an era of incredible invention, and even more wild freedoms than you could dare imagine. And then again, I fell, in a much more personal manner. And finally, I reached the top of the falls, and you were there."

"I? But I have no recollection of any of this. Sherlock, please. Tell me. You were taking drugs again, were you not? This was but an hallucination."

"Indeed, there were drugs, in more fantastic combinations than you could imagine, but I tell you it was no dream, unless this too, is one. All was as real as you and I, here together, in this bed."

"This is outrageous. I never met you at Reichenbach. You were gone when I got there, and there was only the note you left." John looked to the pile of clothes he'd brought down with him from the attic. Even now, the folded paper was in his jacket pocket. He was never without it.

"Ah, John, ever the romantic." Sherlock drew John's hands to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. The act was much more chaste than what they'd done together upstairs, and yet it thrilled John to his very core.

"So what are you saying, then?" John asked, smiling down at Sherlock, and placing a hand on his chest. "All of this is just illusion?"

"I am saying that, perhaps, there are worlds within worlds, or different worlds in which we are always together, John, despite that which would pull us apart."

John thought of all he'd heard today, all the wild stories of encounters with spirits and monsters. "After today, Sherlock, I could well believe anything. The Conductors, indeed, would tell us that the world is much stranger than I've ever imagined. And now you say the same. Worlds like this one, and yet changed? If we can imagine it, I suppose, we must wonder if it could be."

"And perhaps we have not those obstacles to being together, in those other places, that we have here," Sherlock said, in the tone of a man who wished to continue to dream.

John knew just what Sherlock spoke of. There were a thousand dangers, legal and social, that faced them the moment they stepped through the doors of this house and out onto the street. Or, if rumours were to start about them, there was no end of trouble that might befall them. Just this evening, they'd been incautious, in ways that, if any of the witnesses chose to make public, could be their undoing. "You are right. We must be careful. But was the future so much better?"

A smile graced Sherlock's lips then, and his eyes sparkled with humour. "In one way that I particularly liked."

"Oh?"

"You were clean shaven."

John brought his fingers to his upper lip, and felt the full moustache he'd laboured long to grow. It had seemed, at the time, like a practical way to establish that reputation for manliness that, given what he nightly dreamed of doing with Sherlock, might otherwise fall into question.

He reached out and touched Sherlock's cheek, then ran his fingers around the beloved mouth, noting that the skin of Sherlock's upper lip did appear to be rubbed red and raw. He leaned in then, and kissed the man again, and again, running his hands over Sherlock's shoulders and chest, and down to cup his hip.

"I'll shave for you," he murmured, in Sherlock's ear. "But not tonight. Tomorrow."

For another long moment, John was occupied with kissing Sherlock Holmes, with the soft, easy sighs he could cause to issue from Sherlock's throat, in the way they fit together, against the softness of the pillows, under the heavy blankets. As they kissed, all the wonderful and terrible things Sherlock had told him turned through John's mind, and he paused for a moment, because there was suddenly something he must say, something he must make absolutely clear.

"There will be a tomorrow, do you hear me?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sherlock," John propped himself up on Sherlock's chest so he could look him in the eye once more. "I understand if you must insist that time is not nearly as linear as one might hope. And if the sun and moon are unstable in their orbits too, then so be it. But I will no longer be parted from you, and I demand that whatever we do, we do it together from now on. Do I make myself clear?"

Sherlock's smile was as warm as it ever was, all the warmer, for it was accompanied by the firm grip of his hand on John's shoulder. "Indeed, John. I could hardly imagine parting from you, if you are this insistent."

"It's settled then."

"I believe it is."

For a few long moments, they were lost in rearranging the bedding to better support their mutual need, to press skin to skin. John, in particular, wanted nothing more than full freedom to allow his hands to roam wherever they pleased.

A few moments later, Sherlock said, apropos of nothing, "John, are you very attached to this house?"

"Not at all," John murmured against Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock made a noise of warm approval, and slid his hand lower, to rub John's back. "How would you feel about relocating? Back to Baker Street?"

John moaned as Sherlock's hand traced delightful circles on his hip. "Mm. Baker Street? Is it to let again?"

"Never occupied by anyone since you left there."

John stuttered to a stop, his mind freezing on the painful memory of nights in Baker Street without Sherlock. That place was haunted indeed, in those bad days after Reichenbach, by all the memories of the time they'd spent together. But he could go back there, now. They would go back, together. He would be a fool to deny Sherlock anything he wanted, now that they had each other in every way they always should have.

"To Baker Street," then. "You are right. This place has an insufficient number of ghosts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! 
> 
> Thank you so much everyone for comments and kudos and recs and asks about this. I caught a minor bubons in the last week that slowed me down, so thank you even more for your patience! I know the end of the previous chapters was a particularly cruel place to leave things.
> 
> This story is functionally complete, I suppose, but because I simply couldn't end it without giving you more Jane, and giving Jane everything she wants and deserves, there's an epilogue on the way. More weird science and saucy Victorian girlfriends!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jillian and Jane make beautiful experiments together, and plan for a brilliant future.

Jane came to consciousness slowly, to the sound of something crashing downstairs. Jillian had left the curtains open for her. She knew that the sunlight didn't wake Jane, but warmed her as she slept, and that Jane loved to wake up and stretch like a cat, luxuriating in the warm light.

And it was just that—pure luxury—sleeping as late as she pleased, until she woke up naturally.

She rolled onto her back, poking her toes out from under the covers, revelling in the slide of the sheets against her skin, the scent of Jillian on the pillows.

Jillian didn't care how late Jane slept, or whether she prepared food or not. She was just as inclined as Jane was, to go down to the butcher's for a pie or two, or to the public house for a meal to bring back home, and share while draped across the bed. Shopping, at least here in town, at the same dull markets Jane had always frequented, could almost always wait. On that point, among many others, they were enthusiastically agreed.

As for the state of the house, it was utterly debauched, just as rumpled and altered from its old veneer of respectability as Jane herself. The machine Jillian had been working on for the last month, since Dr. Watson moved out to be with his detective in Baker Street, had taken over most of the downstairs, and occupied almost all of Jillian's time.

Jane, of course, took up the rest.

Jane listened for the telltale signs that Jillian was working on it now. Sure enough, a faint clanging sound came from downstairs. The machine wasn't in active operation, however. There was none of the telltale buzzing, the walls did not shake, and the air did not smell like it did during a hard thunderstorm.

Dr. Watson, of course, had made a fuss, a month ago, when he and Mr. Holmes had come by to fetch the last of their things. He'd sputtered and fumed about the damage Jillian and Jane done to the house.

Mr. Holmes, on the other hand, had defended the experiment, and argued that Dr. Watson could hardly have anything to say about it.

"You don't need the house, John," he'd said, his voice soft. "We must allow the ladies the opportunity to do their work."

"But—the walls! The floors! The—everything! What will the landlord say?"

"Oh, hang the landlord, John!" Mr. Holmes had chuckled, and leaned in to murmur in his companion's ear. "Do be a gentleman. For science."

Jillian had looked up at them from her machine, which had, at that time, only occupied a four-foot square spot in the centre of the parlour, her face smeared with grease, her grin maniacal, as always. 

Dr. Watson had smiled fondly at Holmes, and, after clearing his throat, patted him on the elbow, then squeezed and held the man's forearm for a long moment. "You are right, Sherlock, as always. Your way, my dear man."

Jillian and Jane had knocked down the wall separating the parlour from the dining room with a sledgehammer later that night, laughing uproariously as they took turns swinging it and crashing through the plaster and lathe, quite upsetting the neighbours on either side, who had threatened to call the police.

"The dangers of attached houses," Jillian had said, raising her eyebrows, as she and Jane listened to the neighbours' angry threats, shouted through the closed front door.

The fact was, they had nothing to worry about, from the landlord, or the police. Jillian, as it turned out, was quite capable of buying her way out of a plethora of troubles.

Jillian's father was wealthy, and just as mad as Jillian. Recognising quite early on that his daughter had inherited his eccentricities, he'd allowed her every license. She'd bought the place from the landlord outright, offering him so much above its value that he didn't dare refuse. All of Jane's problems had evaporated in an instant, and she'd found herself in this wonderful world of strange science and mystery and—well.

Jane threw back the sheet, rose to her feet, and stretched, the cool air of the room kissing every blessed inch of her naked skin, as she combed through the memory of all that she and Jillian had gotten up to, the night before.

She'd never imagined that such delights were possible. As much as Jane had always longed to meet someone like Jillian, a woman as interested as Jane was, in being with a woman, she'd never dreamed that it could be so good, or that there was so much pleasure to be had under another's woman's clever hands.

For as good as she was with her mechanical devices, as adept at fashioning machines, Jillian was even better at drawing Jane's pleasure out with fingertips or lips, and at knowing, before Jane even had the chance to ask for more, exactly what to do. The very thought of her made Jane smile, as she pulled on a pair of stockings, and tugged one of Dr. Watson's old knit jumpers on over her head, an oversized oatmeal affair that he'd picked up on a trip to Ireland, but had discarded as being too big for him.

It hung down to Jane's mid-thigh, covering her sufficiently to allow her to move about the house. She would leave the rest of her underthings upstairs, in the hope of enticing Jillian back to bed.

She did, however, put on a pair of slippers with hard leather soles. Since she'd given up on cleaning altogether, and Jillian's project produced a great deal of splintered wood and metal scraps and broken glass, it wasn't safe to wander downstairs barefoot.

She found Jillian in the parlour, struggling to attach a thick rubber belt to an enormous gear. As Jane's feet crunched across the floor, Jillian popped her goggles up onto the top of her head, and peered over the top of her machine, grinning.

"Jane. You're awake."

No matter the circumstance, no matter how hard at work she was, Jillian never failed to greet Jane as if she hadn't seen her in years, as if her presence were both a wild surprise, and the most welcome thing she'd ever experienced.

"Morning. Afternoon." Jane shrugged, uncertain which was correct, and not much caring, as she tried to discern what Jillian had done to the machine since last night.

It was enormous, a wild conjunction of gears and knobs and buzzing electrical devices that filled the parlour, the dining room, and part of the hallway. Jillian had linked it into the house's gas supply, which she used to power a central steam engine that ran so hot, they'd had to pile layer upon layer of insulation underneath it—mostly thick wool blankets, which they dampened with water before they ran experiments. This way, they prevented the machine from setting the wooden floor of the parlour on fire.

Parts of the machine had, while they were being tested, blown up, a bit. Jane and Jillian never ran any tests without ducking behind the thick wooden door they'd had to take off its hinges, the one that had formerly separated the dining room from the hall.

Jane shimmied her way around the part of the machine that stood between them, ducking under an enormous pipe that, during test runs, also glowed red hot. Finally, she reached Jillian, who spat out the nail that protruded from the corner of her mouth. Her hands encircled Jane's waist as she kissed the side of her neck, then pulled aside the collar of the jumper, to press more kisses to Jane's shoulder.

"Miss Jills," Jane sighed, "it is, I believe, almost time for you to take a moment's rest, is it not?"

Jillian sucked Jane's earlobe. "Long past it."

Jane could not call Jillian anything else aloud. Although she loved the beauty of all three syllables of Jillian's name, the music of it, she loved even more the secret joke contained in each utterance of _Miss Jills_.

The first time Jillian had brought her to orgasm, with her tongue, no less, Jane had screamed, "Miss Holtzmann!"

Few things could shame Jane, but she'd been genuinely upset by how used she'd become to using the formal mode of address to those who were, supposedly, her betters. Although she'd done everything possible to resist believing there was any difference between her and those who'd been more fortunate in their status at birth, she still couldn't help but fall back on that habit while losing her mind with pleasure. It was embarrassing, deeply so. She'd felt her face flush red, and had tried to cover her eyes with her hands.

Jillian had pulled them away. "No, Jane, I like it. Call me Miss, I insist upon it."

Jane had looked at her then with mingled horror and defiance, that blended with the pleasure still running in her veins. She hadn't been able to find any witty rejoinder. She'd thought better of Jillian, had never imagined she would demand of her what everyone else of her social standing did.

Jillian had grinned up at her, kissed the inside of her thigh, and added, in a low grumble of a voice, "But, since I'll always worship you with my tongue, and it is now the aim of my life to make you know that you are a queen, all you'll hear from me is _Your Majesty_ from now on."

So, now, in the parlour stuffed so full of Jillian's machine, that they could not walk around it, but must shimmy, step over, and squeeze under its protuberances to reach the hallway and the foot of the stairs, if the kisses they exchanged, all teeth and tongues and sharp, sudden need, were punctuated by _oh! Miss Jills_ and _ah, my Queens_ , then it was no surprise to either of them. 

Jane climbed the stairs first, tugging Jillian's hand so she would follow. She did, sliding her hands along the tops of Jane's stockings, and up under the edge of the oatmeal jumper, to cup Jane's bottom as she moved up the stairs, scandalously exposed, and utterly shameless.

Just as she was about to reach the top of the stairs, Jillian took her by the hips, and held her in place, preventing her from climbing the last two steps.

"Wait, Your Majesty," Jillian growled. "I have a need to inspect your clothing. It seems it's quite unusually arranged."

Jane giggled, struggling against Jillian's firm hands, made strong by years of work, and clinging to the railing. She gasped as Jillian pushed the edge of the sweater up, then gently bit the tender flesh of Jane's bottom, first one cheek, and then the other. As she did, Jillian made the most ludicrous noises, which set Jane howling with laughter.

"Miss Jills!" she screamed. "Stop! Stop!" Jane fell onto her hands as she tried to haul herself up the last of the stairs, making it into the upstairs hallway at last, but only at a crawl.

"Is there some trouble? What is it?" Jillian caught her around the waist, stumbling off balance and narrowly avoiding falling, as Jane rose to her feet.

"I must lie down!" Jane howled, giggling with delight as Jillian covered her neck with kisses, then finally let her go.

"If you must, you must, Majesty."

Jane ran to the master bedroom—their bedroom, since Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes had moved out. She fell onto the huge four-poster bed, arms above her head, as Jillian followed and climbed over her, grinning in a manner most delightful.

Such games they played, never failed to delight Jane. The light of genius shone in Jillian's eyes, the brilliance of her fine mind, and her devotion, too. Her smile softened as she lowered herself onto Jane, and kissed her lips. Jane slipped a stockinged thigh between Jillian's legs, making her growl.

Finally, Jillian pulled away. "Your Majesty, what do you want today?"

Jane tugged at the buttons on Jillian's coveralls, happy to play the role of boss. "For one thing, you are wearing far too much."

Jillian grinned and sat up, with a wink undoing button after button. She wore nothing beneath her coveralls, so as she opened them, she revealed her breasts, the soft skin inviting Jane to reach up and touch, the nipples peaking under Jane's busy palms. She was unrepentant, was Jillian Holtzmann, pausing only long enough to strip down the rest of the way, revealing the beauty of her body, all soft curves over wiry muscle. She settled back down between Jane's thighs, the sharp bone of her hip pressing into Jane's belly. Jillian pushed up Jane's jumper, until Jane must comply with what she clearly wanted, finally lifting up her arms so Jillian could pull it up over her head, and toss it unceremoniously aside.

The sensation of Jillian's flesh against her own was so sweet, so beautiful to Jane, she must sigh and kiss Jillian's mouth again, feeling her move over and against her, groin to groin, chest to chest, mouth to mouth, soft and relentless all at once, like an ocean wave.

"And what do you want now, my Queen?" Jillian whispered in Jane's ear.

"Mmm, your fingers, I think."

No sooner had she uttered the wish, than Jillian's fingertips brushed Jane's lips, pressing for admittance. "Very good."

Jane opened her mouth and drew each of Jillian's fingers in, one by one, sucking and licking, thoroughly wetting them. Jillian leaned in to kiss her again, drawing the tip of Jane's tongue into her mouth, as she shifted over to lie beside Jane. She slid her fingers between Jane's legs, nestling them into the folds of her pleasure's centre, sending shocks of delight up through her. Jane tipped the bowl of her pelvis up as she gasped.

"Miss Jills, you are so good to me."

"Good." Jillian murmured against Jane's throat, finding a gentle rhythm, not quite a tease, just enough. "My Queen, you are very wet indeed," she said, dipping the tip of her finger into Jane, and sliding it a little of the way in.

Jane relaxed around it as Jillian kissed the side of her neck, the warm honey sensation of Jillian's lips, the trace of acrid smoke in her hair, mingled with the scent of lavender soap, loosening Jane's belly, and setting her whole body aflame. She gasped and moaned and shifted her legs open as Jillian skimmed Jane's nipples with the flat of her free hand, making Jane understand, yet again, what a treasure she'd won, the day she'd walked into the Conductors' place of business.

Jillian played Jane open with her fingers, finding, as she always did, the way to Jane's pleasure, by a route more circuitous and delightful, than Jane herself possibly could have. Jillian used the side of a finger to press and slide, there, against Jane's clitoris, pleasure so sharp and so sweet, all sense of Jane's own bodily limits left her. She was no longer hands and feet, or the angles of her hipbones, or her knees. She could no longer feel her face, her skin, only Jillian's fingers, quick and steady and specific, speeding her toward her delight.

"Breathe, my Queen. Give me your voice."

Jane's breath sighed out of her—she'd been holding it again. She took in another, shuddering breath, as Jillian's lips pressed to the side of her neck, her tongue circling on the sensitive spot Jane loved her to kiss, as she moaned softly, and Jillian's fingers picked up speed.

They sighed wordlessly together as Jane tipped her hips to meet the movement of Jillian's hand, fingers slick and sure, strong and focused on Jane's pleasure, staying with her as the pressure of her climax built within her, each breath, each moan, the last, she was sure of it, even as she held steady at the peak of pleasure, losing her mind with it, utterly abandoned and free.

She poured over the edge, her voice loud against the rustle of leaves outside the window, obscuring even Jillian's nonsense words of encouragement.

The trembling, rolling release moved through Jane in waves, and she shuddered against Jillian's hand, steady and strong and pressed hard between Jane's legs, still and close, so Jane could come against it, pulsing and throbbing, her whole body convulsing with delight.

When she finally managed to open her eyes, it was to Jillian's mischievous smile, to her red lips, which Jane drew down for a kiss. Jane giggled against Jillian's mouth, as Jillian tried to speak, even now, even though her mouth was occupied, and instead only managed to mumble into Jane's mouth.

"What's that, Miss Jills?" Jane drew back, touching the wild golden locks that Jillian never consented to tame.

"I said, you're stupendous when you come."

Jane blushed and giggled. "Such things you say."

She wasn't yet used to having everything she wanted. She wasn't sure she would ever get used to it. To be free of her former position, that was one thing, but to have found herself in this world of mad women, to be a partner, a paramour—no—the next thing to a wife—of a mad scientist, the maddest of them all, and to find that particular genius happy to give every license, every indulgence Jane had ever dreamed of, and more, and more, well. Happiness was hardly a thing Jane could have anticipated. This abundance of it—it had changed her, irrevocably.

She pushed Jillian over onto her back. Soft and hazy after her climax, Jane gazed at her, drinking her in, her merry eyes, the jut of her chin, the way her cheeks always seemed to dimple at the slightest provocation, her beauty, which was not of the common form, but so much more, because of her brilliance, because of everything she was.

Jillian watched Jane, a smile crossing her lips, as Jane straddled her, and ran her hands over Jillian's waist, her hips, and up under her breasts, teasing over the soft flesh, along her white shoulders, her tender neck. Because she knew Jillian liked it, she bent over her and took Jillian's earlobe between her lips, and tongued and sucked, enjoying the harsh intake of breath, the way Jillian clutched at the back of Jane's neck, and nearly bucked her off, as she shouted her approval.

Jane ran her fingers through Jillian's hair, and, taking hold of it, pulled her head back against the pillow. She placed tender kisses across Jillian's jaw, before reaching her lips, where she paused to press her tongue into Jillian's mouth, loving their mingled breath, her soft sighs.

"Miss Jills, you teach me to be bold."

Jillian hissed as Jane pulled her hair all the harder. "You always were, my Queen." She smiled, and reached up to pull Jane down for another kiss, this one earnest, full of life and passion.

For a great long while there was only this: their two bodies writhing on the bed, Jane, laid out on top of Jillian, her hands roaming, her skin sliding against Jillian's, pulling soft moans from her, as Jane marvelled at how truly shameless she'd become.

She'd never before appreciated her power, what little she had of it. She had been stuck, before, in a world in which she was, at most, a bit of glue in the works, a place where the gears of society ground and choked and produced a thin blue smoke.

But here, in this room, she knew she had a talent for so much more mischief than anyone suspected. That was a fact she sought to prove, again and again, upon Jillian's body. And what a surprise it was, to learn what pleasure she could wring from this body, what heights she was capable of, and how full and rich and warm another woman could be, if treated in all the ways she wished to be.

With her pale curls and her utter irreverence, Jillian was like Jane's mirror opposite, a half she could never have guessed was missing, and certainly nothing like the match society would have chosen for Jane. She smiled as she looked down at Jillian, panting and needy as Jane retreated from the bed, and went looking for a very particular item, one of Miss Jills' more recent acquisitions.

Jillian, knowing full well all that Jane was capable of, propped her head up on her arm and watched, as Jane searched the room.

She found what she was seeking, under a pile of clothes on the chair in the corner, a relic from one of Jillian's experiments, something they'd brought back from another place, another time.

It was shaped like a demure male member, with the exception of the small bit of magic attached to the front of it, that looked a little bit like a sea creature with two antennae and waving wings. All told, it was a little bigger than Jane's thumb. The material was something Jillian said was called 'plastic,' and wasn't like anything Jane had ever felt before—it was neither porous like clay, nor breakable like glass, would not splinter, and seemed to have been made using a mould.

Jane went to a dresser drawer and pulled out a bottle of the slippery fluid that Jillian had also brought with her from her adventure, and coated her fingers, and the shaft of the device. Bringing the bottle with her, she poured more over her fingers, and applied them to Miss Jills herself, who had been grinning at her all the while, from her place on the bed.

"Ah," Jillian said. "Naughty."

"Always," Jane replied.

Jillian slid closer to the edge of the bed, nudging eagerly against Jane's hand, until her legs were dangling off the edge. Jane clutched the device in her left hand, thumb brushing over the buttons which brought such wonder and delight. She still could not believe that the tiny cylinders inside really powered it. They were miniscule compared to the batteries Jillian had built downstairs, and small, even, in comparison with the ones she'd brought back with her from the same place she'd acquired this device, and which she used to supplement the power supply to the machine downstairs.

Such wonders were something Jane supposed she would have to learn to think of as ordinary.

Jillian threw her head back and moaned as Jane slid a finger into Jillian, finding that she was already sopping wet. Jane was not nearly so clever with her fingers (yet, yet) as Miss Jills, who had, she was quite sure, been familiar with other girls and what their bodies were capable of, from her years away at school.

Jane was glad for all that skill, and had learned much from it, and felt much. She found herself, these days, perpetually the dizzy edge of arousal, her whole world liquid, blazing, her every nerve ready to catch fire.

And yet, nothing compared to watching this round-limbed, gorgeous, brilliant woman laid out before her, naked and wanting and open to her touch, to edging up into the warm core of her with fingers, and knowing that it was just as much Jane's own skill, as the amazing features of the instrument in her hand, that would reduce Jillian Holtzmann to a moaning, gasping mess.

Jane had always loved messes.

Jane climbed up and over Jillian, knees on either side of her, and leaned over, letting the toy drop to the bed beside her for a moment, and laid herself out on top of Jillian, chest to belly, everything warm and soft between them. Jillian made a throaty sound of encouragement as Jane kissed her lips, already red and full, then her dimpled cheek, then her jaw, her throat.

They pressed together, their bodies different enough, Jane's small and wiry, Jillian's well-muscled, strong, skin sliding on skin, Jane's breasts pressed flat against Jillian's, rubbing as Jane shifted and returned to kiss Jillian's lips once more, parting her mouth with a delicate slip of her tongue, each of them different from the other, but full of the same sensations.

Finally, she sat up, and urged Jillian to slide up higher on the bed, sprawling on the pillows, as Jane took up the toy once more. Anticipation made Jillian breathe all the more quickly, as Jane touched the tip of the device between Jillian's legs, and dipped it in, ever so slightly, taking her time, opposing her movements to Jillian's sharp panting, going slowly, as she rocked the length of the toy along Jillian's slit.

Jillian closed her eyes and grinned, murmuring, "Jane, Jane," slipping into a state of bliss, her usual energy and intensity relaxing as she heaved and sighed, rolling into Jane's touch, taking the toy just a little bit further inside her with each new wave. Jane never rushed, but found that she was chewing her own lower lip as Jillian opened to her, and to the little marvel in her hand, as the small miracle on the front of it came closer and closer to Jillian's body. Jane waited to press any of the buttons, until the device was snug against Jillian, the small fronds on the front of it brushing against the centre of Jillian's pleasure.

Jillian's cheeks were already growing pink with the intensity of all that she felt, her hands now bunching in the covers, as she groaned and rolled and let out a sound like a laugh, pitching down to plant herself more firmly against the device. Jane caressed Jillian's hip, squeezed her thigh, and said, "You must ask for it, Miss Jills."

"Ah," was all Jillian said, her mouth open, her breath heaving. "Yes."

Jane moved her hand, retracting the toy just enough to make Jillian squirm with frustration. "Ask."

"Ah, all right, all right, Majesty. May I? May I have it?"

"Mm hm." Jane moved the toy back into place, pushing it forward in slow, gentle nudges. "Miss Jills," she said, admiring the moaning, squirming woman beneath her, watching the single bead of sweat that ran down Jillian's temple, the perspiration that gathered along her belly. "You haven't said please."

Jillian threw back her head then, and roared out her frustration and laughed wildly as Jane giggled, knowing full well that this teasing was precisely what Jillian loved. Jane herself was too needy, too demanding, to like much teasing yet. But in their first few days together, Jillian had taught her to go slowly, and told her how much she liked it, when everything was long drawn out.

So Jane would have worried, would have wondered if she'd made a mistake, in the beginning, but now she knew that the tease, that the slow, incremental movements she made, that would have made Jane herself lose her mind, if their positions had been reversed—she knew that this was what Jillian wanted, and knew furthermore, Jillian would argue, gently but firmly, against any attempt to speed things along.

So if Jane took her time, and waited as Jillian writhed and moaned, limbs trembling, for her lips to purse together and form some semblance of a _p_ sound, stuttering on the one consonant for longer than she should, as Jane seated the toy more deeply inside her, if Jane took her time lying down beside Jillian, nudging her legs against Jillian's, pressing her belly into Jillian's hip, leaning in to kiss Jillian's neck, it was only because Jillian lingered as her tongue darted out to lick her lips, before she finally managed a plaintive _please_ that was so full of desperation and need, all of this was was only because Jane knew Jillian loved to be brought to the heady edge, only because she loved the panting woman stretched out on the bed, trying to drive herself onto the toy Jane held firmly, loved the perfume that released from her skin, along with her sweat: the murky scent of motor oil and coal gas, and the heady electrical odour that always seemed to be with her, the scent that accompanied a thunderstorm.

"Are you ready?" Jane murmured in Jillian's ear, her voice full of delight. She didn't wait for an answer. She couldn't wait any longer herself. She could tell that the smallest thing would finish Jillian, and she wanted to make sure that she came spectacularly.

Feeling her way along the buttons on the toy, she used her index finger to thumb the one that controlled the little fluttering thing pressed up against Jillian on the outside. It leapt to life in an instant. Jane grinned, knowing the effect it would have.

She was not disappointed: Jillian threw her head back, yelling full-throatedly at the ceiling, her breath heaving in huge gasps as she shouted nonsense and her whole body shook. Only when she'd been going on for a few long moments, did Jane work the other button, the one that would move the toy inside Jillian.

It was only the work of a moment before Jillian came, the first wave moving through her as a howl, one hand clutching Jane's arm where it reached down between her legs, adding her strength to it as she rode the toy all the way to her own completion. The other hand grabbed a fistful of blanket, and she moaned and shuddered through another wave, and another. Finally she began to still, and Jane turned off the toy, letting it sit within Jillian as she throbbed and sighed out her aftershocks.

At last, Jane withdrew it, and dropped it on the bed, allowing herself to be drawn into the crook of Jillian's arm, smug satisfaction on her lips as Jillian kissed her temple fervently.

"You're a genius, Jane."

"Miss Jills, my title."

"Genius Jane _is_ your title."

"As you say."

For a long moment, it was just the two of them, warm and drawn together, the softness of skin on skin, the delights of holding and being held. Jane revelled in the body that was so much like hers, possessed of breasts, curving hips, rounded belly, soft skin, dimpled cheeks, dimpled arse, for that matter.

And yet, the mystery of it all was in the depths of Jillian's mind, her boundless energies, that drew Jane into her circle from the first moment they met, and drew Jane out of the vicissitude of her previous life, when she had nothing to hope for, being, herself, nothing, but the maid of a man who had had adventures, once.

Now the game was on again, for her and Jillian, and for Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson too. The world was suddenly so much more than it had been.

Worlds, that was. She idly reached out and touched the toy, where she had discarded it on the bed. It was a wonder, and from a time of wonders, both immeasurably distant, and right downstairs. She and Jillian both had a small wardrobe of clothes from those future eras—when they travelled, Jane could choose from short skirts and blouses with buttons, and tight fitting trousers and boots and gauzy shirts with mesh in strategic places.

Jillian had seemed to manage to find some variation of her favoured coveralls in every time and place they'd visited. 

It still amazed Jane, that the future was right there, for them to find, and touch, and know, and to plunder it for such things as she'd never imagined could be. In some of those times, roaring carriages rushed down the road, horseless and purring. The first time they'd seen them, Jillian had immediately persuaded a handsome young man to let her drive one, enthusing to Jane about how Karl Benz in Germany could never have imagined that he would have started such a glorious trend.

And there were other times, when the haze of industry seemed to clear, and the world looked like a forest, and people lived in shining cities and did as they willed. And others yet, that they had only visited for brief moments, that stood, as Jillian put it, on the knife edge of the machine's capabilities, where silvery ships hung like bright arrows in the sky, and strange people, eight feet tall, with eyes as big as oranges, walked along the streets in company with people.

It was endlessly fascinating, and she and Jillian moved through those places with a sense of wonder. It wasn't always safe for them—more than one run-in with hostile men proved that it was still a man's world—and yet, there was more freedom there, for the most part, in any case.

The toy had come from the era that Jillian said was safest for them to visit, the easiest for the machine to reach, a mere hundred and twenty years in the future. In truth, Jane thought that it was Jillian's favourite time, for she loved the chaos there, and she loved the gadgets.   

Jillian rolled on the bed now, and plucked one of those gadgets from the side table, one of the marvellous glass rectangles she especially loved.

"I sent one of these to Mr. Holmes this morning," Jillian said. "Just before you came downstairs."

Jane rolled onto her belly, tucking her head against Jillian's shoulder so she could watch the coloured lights shift on the screen, as Jillian played a game. Many of the device's functions wouldn't work in this era, and Jillian had yet to find a way to power them that didn't burn out their circuits, but she could play with them, and knew well the vast number of things they could do.

"So we'll be expecting a visit, then?"

"Any minute now," Jillian said. "Once he has a few moments to look at it, shout at his doctor, and make his way here."

"Why did you decide to share it?" Jane asked. Not petulant, although she supposed she could be. She loved their privacy very well.

Jillian kissed the top of her head. "He is a genius of his time. It would be criminal to hold this back."

"He will want to travel with us."

"Undoubtedly."

"I wonder," Jane said, daring to utter a thought she hadn't quite prepared herself to speak aloud on her own behalf, "if he will want to return at all. It seems to me, he would be more at home in a future time."

"I've thought just the same thing," Jillian said, smiling at her. "The technology, Jane! The scientific advances."

Jane nodded. She didn't care as much about those things, as she did about the dream of freedom, and her desire to have as much of it as they could manage.

As if reading her thoughts, Jillian said, "Besides, do you not sometimes wonder what would happen if we left here, and took our place in one of those times when it might be safer for us to be together openly, and in public? Look at this."

She pulled up a news article, something she must have called down into the device while they were still in its own era.

Jane studied the text. "Is this in earnest?" she asked, sitting up to read it more closely.

"It is. No joke at all, sweet darling."

"We could be married? And live as man and wife do? Or rather, wife and wife?"

Jillian chuckled. "Precisely, my love. And if Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson would like to be together in this way as well—"

"—as we know they would—"

"Indeed. How could I deny them the opportunity, since I am in a position to facilitate it?"

Jane smiled. "You sent him a device that also had this article on it, along with the date, did you not?" Jane asked.

"I might have."

Just then, a knock sounded loudly at the front door, followed almost immediately by another.

"Yes!" Jillian said, bouncing out of bed, then diving under it, dimpled arse in the air, to retrieve her coveralls.

"Get dressed, my Queen! We have the honour of seeing the world's only consulting detective utterly surprised—a rare chance!" She giggled as she jumped from one foot to the other, pulling on her pantaloons.

The pounding on the door increased in volume and urgency.

"Ah! So impatient! Come on, Jane!"

Jillian went tearing down the stairs, leaving Jane to scramble to find a dress and put it on, while she listened to the sound of the front door opening, and Holmes exclaiming loudly from the downstairs entryway. She hurried to find a pair of lace-up leather shoes with flat, heavy soles—a gift from Jillian, from the last time they'd travelled into the future.

She raced down the stairs to find Mr. Holmes, who had grabbed Jillian by the shoulders, and was shaking her, all the while releasing a stream of unremitting praise into her face, and kissing her forehead and cheeks.

"You are a genius! Brilliant! Incredible!" he ranted, as he brandished a glass rectangle. "I cannot believe that this is anything but what it appears to be—for the mechanics of it are invisible to the eye, and the moving pictures astounding, impossibly clear, and in colour!"

Behind him, Dr. Watson looked on incredulously, his face red, his breath coming hard, as if he'd been forced to run the entire way from Baker Street. He frowned each time his companion kissed Jillian, as though he wished he knew who he had to fight, in order to stop this madness. He smiled, though, when he saw Jane come crashing down the stairs.

His upper lip was bare, the thick moustache he'd always worn, gone at last. He looked a good ten years younger.

"Dr. Watson," Jane said, nodding at him, as Mr. Holmes played a moving picture of a kitten, and insisted that Jillian watch it with him.

"Jane." Dr. Watson nodded at her, as terse and formal as he'd ever been. "You look well."

"Thank you. You do also. Very well indeed, if you don't mind me saying so." It took everything she had, not to add the accustomed "Sir," but she reminded herself, not for the last time, she was sure, that she had moved beyond such modes of address.

"I do not mind at all." As he said so, he glanced at Holmes, and then blinked, and looked down at the torn hall carpet, a secret smile on his face.

"Look at this, Jane. Have you seen it?" Holmes yelled at her. He swiped and punched his finger at the device's screen, until the short cinematic display of a kitten, tangled in a ball of yarn, began to play once more.

Jane smiled at him triumphantly. "I have, Sir. And what is more, I've been to the place, or I should say, the time, from which that device comes, and much more besides."

She lifted her skirt, and stuck out her foot, so he could look at the shoe.

"Dear God!" he said. "The stitching is so uniform! And the treads—is that rubber? Moulded so precisely."

"Mass produced, by machines," Jillian told him.

"Of course! John, look!" He shouted. "And please, you must call us John and Sherlock. There will be no more of this formality, not, as it seems, you are inviting us to embark on this particular adventure with you. At least, I hope you are. I must insist you take us with you. I will hear nothing of any difference between us, since you are pioneers, the both of you, and we owe you a heavy debt."

"No debt, Sherlock," Jillian said, nudging him with an elbow as she winked at Jane. "If not for you and your tricks, I would never have met Jane, nor would I have had this house to use for my experiments."

Mr. Holmes—Jane would call him Sherlock aloud, but she wasn't sure she would ever grow quite used to thinking of him that way, not for a long while—turned to look at Doctor Watson—his John—and all the sharp excitement relaxed from his features, and he smiled, so small and tender a smile, Jane would never have been able to imagine it, if she had not seen it herself. And John Watson, for his part, looked at Sherlock Holmes with such a gentle, open, loving gaze, his eyes shining as if he were about to weep for joy, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile.

He looked so very happy, more content, certainly, than Jane had ever imagined he could be, when he was with Mistress Mary, and he had first moved into this house. What a transformation both of their lives had seen.

"But tell me," Mr. Holmes continued, "when can we depart? What manner of preparations must we make?"

"Well, let me see." Jillian studied the ceiling, as if making a mental list of some length. "Have you eaten breakfast? Lunch? Something?"

"We have," Dr. Watson replied. "I did manage to get some tea and food into him, before we came tearing over here."

Jane smiled down at her hands. Dr. Watson had, when he was on his own, eaten but reluctantly, and had, on occasion, gone entire days with nothing but whiskey for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It was gratifying in the extreme, to see that he was not only looking after himself better, but Mr. Holmes as well.

"Very well!" Jillian clapped her hands loudly. "Let's go."

Mr. Holmes grinned broadly, while for his part, Dr. Watson looked startled, as Jillian led the way into the parlour, and began to make the elaborate adjustments to the device, preparatory to its use.

"The portal will open there," she said, nodding toward the large, dark stain on the wood floor, in the place where the dining room table used to be, before it was blown to splinters. The machine hummed, as she fired up the central gas engine, and adjusted the mirrors and plates that reflected the blue energies from its core electromagnetic coils.

At last, the familiar hum began to shake the walls of the house. The hair stood up on the back of Jane's neck, a sure sign that the machine was ready to go.

Jane smiled at Dr. Watson, who chewed the inside of his lip, and tugged at his collar, as if it were suddenly too tight. He took a step to position himself between Holmes and the machine, as if he could somehow protect him from whatever was about to happen.

"My Queen, would you do the honours?" Jillian grinned at Jane as she indicated the dials and switches that made up the date selector.

"Honours?" Holmes asked, all eagerness.

"She means, where would you like to go? Or, when?" Jane explained.

"Both, really," Jillian shrugged.

"Where this came from." Holmes brandished the glass rectangle. "When. And—if that time coincides with the date of the news item I read on it, then yes, please, let us go there at once."

"2014? That's if you want to stay in Britain. 2015 if you'd like to, perhaps, go to America. And there's always Canada. 2005, although those—" Jillian nodded at the glass rectangle— "weren't nearly as fun in 2005."

"Canada will do, no matter the year," Holmes said, looking at Dr. Watson. "Niagara Falls."

Dr. Watson cleared his throat. "A waterfall, Sherlock?"

Mr. Holmes smiled at him ruefully. "Need a chance to get it right this time," he said, shyly. He turned back to Jillian. "What about a little later? Something far enough into the future, a year in which these advances and more have come to pass. Say, 2016?"

Jillian wrinkled her nose, and shook her head slightly.

At the controls of the date selector, Jane lifted her hands up, as if the controls had suddenly grown very hot. "Mr. Holmes—Sherlock. I don't think you want that year."

"2017, then?"

"Oh, no, Sir. No. Especially not if you want to go to America."

"Niagara Falls," Mr. Holmes insisted. "Very well then, what year would you suggest?"

Jane caught Jillian's smile, and they both spoke simultaneously. "2018." They looked at each other, and laughed.

"Some nice surprises in 2018," Jane said. "Advances in energy technologies, some really good medical discoveries, and, well. You'll see."

"You will indeed," Jillian agreed.

"But our clothes," Dr. Watson said. "Surely we will look out of place."

"Oh, John, where's your sense of adventure?" Sherlock crowed. "I'm sure wherever we're going, we can purchase new things."

"Oh yeah," Jillian said. "And money? Comes on these." She dug a metal cigarette case out of out of the pocket of her overalls, and opened it to reveal a small sheaf of thin plastic cards. "They get a little bit fried in the transition if you're not careful. I learned that the hard way." She closed the cigarette case, and knocked on it. "But money, as it turns out, not an issue." She shrugged.

"Excellent," Mr. Holmes replied. He held out his hand to Dr. Watson. "Shall we?"

"Indeed." Dr. Watson took the offered hand, holding it firmly.

"All right," Jillian said, throwing a lever or two. The machine whirred into life, causing the floor and walls of the house to shake. The noise made it impossible to hear each other speak.

Jane worked the dials and switches of the selector, until it was set for Niagara Falls, Canada, in 2018. She'd chosen late spring, a time when all of nature would be flourishing, and prepared the machine to deposit them in a particularly handy and empty corridor of their favourite hotel, where their transition in, bound to be loud and potentially combustive, wouldn't be witnessed.

They would pay for the damages, of course. And a suite for themselves, and another for Sherlock Holmes, and Dr. Watson.

Before the portal opened, she set the timer on the machine so it would re-open it again, in three days' time, should they decide they wished to return. She suspected that this time, she and Jillian might make their sojourn permanent.

As for Sherlock Holmes, he had always seemed to be a man out of his time, and John Watson, well, he would, perhaps, argue, but Jane felt certain he would never let Holmes out of his sight again.

The portal bloomed into shimmering, blue life in the centre of the dining room. Together, she and Jane made certain Holmes and Watson made it across the gap, before the two of them linked arms, and passed through it themselves, a single step that would take them into that fine future, where anything and everything seemed possible.


End file.
